


The Price of Truth

by MissjuliaMiriam



Series: Ut Malis Melior [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (sort of), Aggressively Making The HP Worldbuilding More Diverse If It Kills Me, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Author is Only Mostly Sorry, BWL Neville Longbottom, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Harry Potter, Death Eaters, Domesticity, Dumbledore's Army, Fancy Dress Parties And Other Things The Author Hates Describing, Gen, Gratuitously Hot Voldemort, Harm to Children, Harry Potter and the Big Stupid Baby Gay Crush on Cedric Diggory, Harry Potter vs. The Media, Hermione Granger's Deep And Abiding Love for Books, Hurt/Comfort, Lies & Deception, Occlumency, Parseltongue, Politics, Quidditch, REVOLUTIONNNNNNN, Sirius Black is a Good Parent, Slytherin Harry Potter, Sneaky Narcissa Malfoy, Spy Harry Potter, The Chamber Of Secrets, The Wizengamot - Freeform, Tom Riddle's Diary, Torture, Yule Ball, fuck umbridge all my homies hate umbridge, we doing EVERY plotline this year
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:26:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 145,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23270170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissjuliaMiriam/pseuds/MissjuliaMiriam
Summary: Voldemort is back, and Harry Potter is balancing on the edge of a knife. When the price of truth is life, lies are cheap—but not easy.Read on as Harry navigates his third year at Hogwarts and becomes ever more entangled in the threads of war, politics, and the high-stakes game of information that lies beneath them both.--Book Three of Ut Malis Melior, sequel to The Thrown Pebble and The Nascent Threat. Updates every other week, on Sundays.
Relationships: Albus Dumbledore & Harry Potter, Gemma Farley/OFC, Harry Potter & Severus Snape, Harry Potter & Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter, Hermione Granger & Neville Longbottom & Ron Weasley, Neville Longbottom & Harry Potter, Remus Lupin & Harry Potter, Sirius Black & Albus Dumbledore, Sirius Black & Harry Potter, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Series: Ut Malis Melior [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1140833
Comments: 288
Kudos: 413





	1. Solstice

**Author's Note:**

> IT'S DOOOOOOOOONE.
> 
> God. Well, almost three months late, but I have finally finished Book Three! And now it's here! Shit's gotten real, guys, and I hope you're ready—the tags on the first chapter are already no joke, in case you hadn't noticed. I will remind everyone know that this is an "it gets worse before it gets better" story, and it WILL get bad, but EVENTUALLY it will get better. I promise!
> 
> Thank you to gabsc for once again stepping up to the plate to beta this absolute monstrosity. Book Three clocks in at just under 150,000 words, so this is a major task and I love and admire you SO much for all the work you do! 
> 
> Thanks also to Morgan, who continues to be my brainstorming parter and cheer-reader.
> 
> And to absolutely everyone who's been reading and leaving comments, especially during the hiatus; that shit keeps me going, and I love you all for it. 
> 
> As with previous instalments, tags and warnings will be updated as we go along. For the first chapter (and sort of generally for this one, actually), a warning for fairly graphic depiction torture and harm to children. Take care of yourselves, lovelies!

On the Hogwarts Express headed home after a second year that had seemed both very long and to have gone by very, very fast, Harry tunes out the soft conversation Blaise and Theo are having—they either don’t notice or don’t mind, as neither tries to get his attention—and daydreams about being back at the Doghouse and safe, back in a place where he can have a hug from Sirius or Remus when he’s frightened or sad, and he can help with mundane chores to take his mind off of things, and they can go and run in the park until Harry is exhausted and knows he’ll sleep well. The warmth of home is waiting for him.

He’s welcomed with love and joy by Sirius and Remus and fed a good dinner, and the next day they have a lazy morning. Sirius and Harry play card games and make silly suggestions when Remus asks for help with a crossword clue, and it’s brilliant. Harry can’t wait for a whole summer of this.

And then, just after Harry turns out his lights and crawls in bed on only his second night back home, an owl raps at his window. Frowning, he gets up and lets it in, and by moonlight reads the note it carries scrawled in familiar handwriting:

_Potter,_

_The Dark Lord calls us both to his side on the evening of the solstice. Find a way to escape the monitoring of your godfather and his pet and meet me at the Muggle entrance to the Leaky Cauldron at six on Monday night, the 21_ _ st _ _of June. Do not be late, or I will make you sorry—before the Dark Lord does._

It’s not signed. It doesn’t need to be. After two years of seeing it on a chalkboard and in the margins of his essays, Harry knows Professor Snape’s tall, sharp handwriting.

He flips the note over and writes on the back, _Yes sir._

He hands the paper back to the owl, and waits until the bird is gone. Then he closes his window, lies down on his bed, presses his face to his pillow, and cries in a short, jagged burst that feels ripped out of him. Barely a full day back at the Doghouse; only a single weekend of freedom. On Monday, he’ll sell his soul or die. He can’t even tell Sirius. He certainly can’t trust Snape, who’s probably a Death Eater—has probably been a Death Eater this entire time. And he let him into his _head_.

His door clicks open, and he freezes.

“Oh, Harry,” says Remus’s soft voice. He closes the door behind himself and walks assuredly across the shadowed floor of Harry’s room to sit on the edge of his bed, and he places a hand, fingers splayed, in the middle of Harry’s back. Harry’s face is still pressed into the pillow and he can hardly breathe, but he doesn’t care. Doesn’t know if he’d be able to breathe, even if he were lying on his back.

“It’ll all be alright, my dear,” Remus says softly. “I know it doesn’t seem that way right now, but you are the strongest boy I have ever known, and you will get through this.”

Remus doesn’t promise that they’ll be there for him or protect him. Harry doesn’t know why—it’s all Sirius had talked about during that first week after Easter, what he’d said tonight after kissing Harry’s forehead, just before sending him to bed. But it helps.

Harry sniffs wetly and raises his face to peer through the darkness at Remus. Everything is blurry without his glasses, but Remus’s familiar shape is there.

“Let’s turn your pillow over,” Remus says, and helps Harry do just that. “Here, and a handkerchief.” And he conjures one, lets Harry blow his nose and then banishes the fabric again. “Better?”

Harry shrugs. He doesn’t have the words. If he speaks, he thinks he’ll spill everything, and he _can’t_.

“I know how that feels,” Remus sighs. “I only wish you didn’t. Would you like a cup of water before you sleep?” When Harry shakes his head, he strokes Harry’s hair back away from his forehead—it’s still short and wild, but Sirius had suggested last summer that Harry might want to grow it out, and this summer he thinks he’ll do it. Remus strokes the soft strands through his fingers, and then he bends down and kisses Harry’s forehead much like Sirius had earlier. “I love you, my cub. If you have bad dreams, or need anything in the night, please don’t hesitate to come wake us.”

“Okay,” Harry whispers. He won’t, but… again, the offer helps, just enough. He closes his eyes. “Sorry, Remus.”

“It’s alright, love.” Remus strokes his hair one more time, and then gets up. “Good night, Harry.”

“Night.”

Soft footsteps, and then the door opens and shuts again, and Harry is left alone to spiral down into dreaming.

He has nightmares, because of course he does. They’re mostly amorphous; he doesn’t remember anything specific when he wakes in a cold sweat early on Sunday morning. He lies in bed for a while, staring at the ceiling, and tries to force his brain to work—he’s feeling shocky and shaken by the fear lurking in his dreams, but he’s also only just woken up. It’s a bad combination. Eventually, however, he manages to straighten out his thoughts, and he sits up and meditates for about a half hour to calm himself down and continue the slow process of repairing his Occlumency shields. He thinks he has everything back to how it was before Easter, but he still checks and reinforces the walls of his internal Hogwarts at least twice a day, and sometimes thrice. He can only hope that his shields will stand up to Voldemort again, because he doesn’t have any more time to get stronger.

When he’s done meditating, he stays in his room a while longer and listens for any noise out in the rest of the flat, but things are still quiet; a look at the clock on his bedside table tells him exactly why. It’s still early, only just seven, and though Remus will likely be up and around in another half hour or so, Sirius will sleep at least another hour. That gives Harry some time to figure out what the hell he’s going to tell them in order to get away tomorrow.

A meeting with one of his friends would be easiest, but they might insist on accompanying him. In fact, they probably _would_ insist—Voldemort, after all, is at large. So he needs to have a genuine meet-up planned—one that Sirius and Remus would let him go to alone. That they would _have_ to let him go to alone. But… Harry thinks he could do that. Remus is meant to be working at his muggle job tomorrow, and the Wizengamot always has a session on the summer and winter solstices, even if they don’t coincide with the new moon—the summer solstice session happens at noon, so Sirius will be busy all day tomorrow as well. They’d told him yesterday that they trusted him to stay at home alone; he hopes they’ll trust him to visit Diagon Alley in the company of a friend and perhaps their parents, instead.

Harry scrambles up out of bed and grabs for parchment and a dip pen, and writes out a quick note. Hermione, he decides, will be easiest; she’ll reply the most promptly and will be the most likely to agree to a spur-of-the-moment Diagon Alley trip. With that in mind, he writes her a note asking her if she’d like to meet him at Flourish and Blotts at two tomorrow afternoon to help him decide what he wants to buy for summer reading, and says that while Remus and Sirius will both be busy, her parents are welcome to tag along—and maybe should, given everything. He sends Hedwig off, and only a few minutes later, hears the sounds of movement outside his door that suggest that Remus has woken up. Harry doesn’t want to attract any suspicion, so he waits a little longer, and then wanders out of his room, stretching and rubbing his eyes, to find Remus busy brewing tea in the kitchen.

“Morning, Harry,” Remus says, when he notices him. “Sleep well?”

Harry hums, and waggles his hand in the air.

Remus nods in commiseration and quietly offers him a cup of tea. They have a quiet cuppa together, and then the post owl arrives with the Daily Prophet. Remus shakes it out and reads the front page, then digs through it to extract the sports section, which he offers to Harry. They read quietly until Sirius wakes up, and then have breakfast.

It’s a perfect morning. Harry can only pray to a god he doesn’t believe in that he’ll have many more.

After breakfast, Harry takes a shower, and then sits down to get a start on his summer schoolwork, with occasional help from Remus. He wants to get it out of the way as early as possible, and both Remus and Sirius look approving about that. After about an hour of work, Harry sits back and stretches his back, and then looks over at a tap on the balcony window to find Hedwig there, clutching a letter in her talons.

“One of your friends?” Sirius asks.

“I guess,” Harry says, though he doesn’t have to guess at all. He goes over and lets Hedwig in, following her over to the table where she lands and waits patiently for him to procure her an owl treat from the cupboard before she hands over his letter. It is, indeed, from Hermione, and Harry says as much as he opens it and scans it quickly.

She’s agreed to meet him, he reads with relief, though he hides that emotion and instead sighs and shakes his head with a fond smile. “She wants to go look at books for summer reading,” Harry says. “Tomorrow afternoon. I told her I thought we should go sometime early in the summer, but I didn’t think she’d want to go _right away_.”

“Zealous, that girl,” Sirius says, with a laugh. “Well, I see no reason to put her off—though I wouldn’t be able to go with you. Solstice Session.”

“I’m working,” Remus says. “You’d have to go on your own, Harry.”

Harry skims further down the letter, and shrugs. “She says her parents would come, take us to dinner afterward.”

Remus and Sirius exchange a brief look, and Sirius shrugs minutely. Remus tilts his head, but then the both of them look back to Harry. “That would be alright,” Sirius says. “But don’t leave Diagon. I doubt Voldemort and his posse have the resources necessary to make a direct assault on the Alley just yet, but you’ll be a target—they may be watching for you, and specifically for you to wander off on your own.”

Harry nods. He’ll be careful, of course he will, but going off on his own with an agent of the Dark Lord is half the point—he just can’t have Sirius and Remus find that out.

“In that case, you go ahead and let her know you’ll be going. I can take you to the Leaky before I head to the Ministry.”

“Alright,” Harry says, and writes back just that—that Sirius will escort him to the Leaky Cauldron around 11:30, and that if Hermione wants to join him, he plans to make a run to the bank and get himself some lunch before book shopping. He lets Hedwig rest a while, and then sends her off again with a few final strokes of the smooth feathers on the top of her head, and she nips his fingers affectionately before she wings away into the afternoon. Against a bright sky, her white feathers vanish quickly, and Harry sighs. Easily done, to lie to Sirius and Remus, to Hermione, to everyone.

The rest of the day passes pleasantly; they go for a walk in the evening with Sirius as Padfoot to run about in the park, and Harry plays fetch until he’s tired. Before bed, he asks Sirius quietly if they can have a quick Occlumency session, and Sirius obliges without any protest or apparent suspicion; he just seems glad that Harry is determined to keep up his skills, and doubly pleased when he sees how strong Harry’s shields have become. He delivers a plethora of compliments and advice for refinement, but says that Harry has come along extremely far, and should be prepared for pretty much anything.

Harry only hopes that’s true. Once he turns his light off, he sits up a while longer and meditates, and then tries the trick of mental organization that had gotten him through his last encounter with Voldemort. It’s not as easy without pressing desperation to fuel him, but after an effort he manages to close away most of himself behind doors, leaving behind only his darker emotions. He’s sure that his mind must seem hollow without all of the light and life that usually fills it, but that hadn’t seemed to bother Voldemort last time. This time, Harry tries to populate the halls and rooms of his inner Hogwarts as best he can. It’s like hanging paintings, he decides, and uses that visualization to strengthen the technique. He’s drawn curtains over all of the windows, so Voldemort can’t see what lurks beyond the walls, the sunlight and greenery of the grounds, where his love and his joy live. He places outside the walls of Hogwarts itself every monument to his dedication to see Voldemort destroyed, the Death Eaters killed or imprisoned for what they’ve done to Harry’s family, to his friends, to everyone in the magical world; he hides away between the trunks of the Forbidden Forest his disgust for Voldemort’s ideals, for pureblood bigotry, for violence. He hides there, too, his fear and his shame at what he’s about to do, and hopes that Voldemort will step into the walls of Hogwarts and believe that because he is _within_ the walls, he’ll believe that he’s seeing the deepest heart of Harry, when really everything that Harry is lives outside, in the clear fresh air.

And inside, Harry tucks away memory and emotion. Grief and rage and disgust, for things that Voldemort either would approve of or that he would be able to _use_. Everything he hates or fears about himself, Harry lets linger in the halls of his Hogwarts. Some things he lets stand out, proud: paintings on the walls of the dream he has of seeing Pettigrew suffer at the end of his own wand. His joy in humiliating Draco Malfoy in public. Himself standing defiant in front of Dumbledore. Himself as proud Black Heir, pure and strong and _powerful_. The motivations for these he tucks away in nearby rooms. One room for his frustration with the state of the magical world, his anger at inefficiency and bigotry, the foolish flailing of the people in so-called ‘power’ who have no _real_ power at all. One room for his frustrations with Dumbledore, who had been responsible for his placement with the Dursleys, who hates Slytherin and doesn’t _trust_ anyone. His bitterness toward the magical world at large, which should have welcomed him as a scion of _real_ power and instead rejected him when he was young, treated him like an outsider, nearly managed to force him down altogether; it was only Slytherin House that had granted him a path to prominence.

Some things he hides better, knowing that Voldemort will probably find them anyway. Things that he knows that this version of himself _shouldn’t_ feel, but must anyway, because it would be too suspicious if they were absent. In the Mirror of Erised room, his grief for his parents—and the shameful spark of resentment he feels toward them for _breaking_ when they should have stayed strong for him. In another room, his boiling hatred for the Death Eaters who were involved in that attack on his family: Pettigrew and Crouch and Lestrange, and also there, his mistrust for Voldemort himself, his uncertainty about what place he might be able to find in an organization that would have seen him dead as a baby. Every memory he has, too, of being friends with Neville Longbottom and Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger, people he shouldn’t trust or like or be close with, but _is_. The reasons for that are… so complicated that Harry can barely sort them out, but he tries to lay threads that make his loyalty to them look surface-level and harmless, rather than like a part of the foundation of who he is. The same for his loyalty to the House of Black, to Sirius, who is his godfather and his Lord and a staunch enemy of Voldemort.

He wraps up thoughts and feelings in layer upon layer of winding halls and moving staircases, places things behind doors, compartmentalizes and organizes until he’s exhausted. And then he double checks the way his shields are layered: yes, the first layer that protects his surface thoughts is there. And below them, the layer of shields that allows access to Hogwarts itself, a solid oak barrier in his mind like the front doors of the castle. And then the castle itself. And finally the walls of the castle, dark stone like bedrock that blocks anyone who has broken in this far from breaking anything further and gaining access to the grounds, where Harry’s true heart dwells: in the fresh air and open sky and sunlight of Hogwarts in spring, trees growing and the smell of cut grass and the freedom of flying, laughing with his friends by the lake, reading in the shade beneath a tree. He lets himself linger there for a while, and then he withdraws back to the castle layer. He throws open the curtains on the windows, lets the light shine in, illuminate the paintings and fill the rooms until the darker parts of his mind are reminded of why they exist, until _he_ is reminded of why he has to become the person Voldemort will see if he violates Harry’s mind again, and then Harry emerges and lies down to sleep, drained… and prepared for whatever may come tomorrow.

* * *

Monday, June 21st, 1993 dawns early and dawns bright; Harry wakes at his usual hour to find his room already flooded with sunlight through the curtains he’d left open the previous evening. He gets up and dresses, putting on slacks and a tidy black shirt, sleeveless but collared and made from linen to account for the weather; over that he slips on a similarly light robe in ash grey. Formal enough to pass muster in public—and in front of Voldemort, Harry hopes—but casual enough not to alert Sirius and Remus that anything more unusual than a visit with a friend is happening. He also puts on his dad’s lily pendant, hiding it below his collar, for luck; Neville’s snake bracelet, for cleverness; and a hint of his mother’s perfume at his throat and wrists, for courage. The faint scent, a little spicy and richly floral, fills him up until he almost feels like everything will work out.

Remus gives him a look when he comes out, mournful and curious and startled all together, and Harry ducks his head, embarrassed. “I just—”

“It’s alright,” Remus interrupts. “I miss her too.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, his voice thick.

Remus makes tea, and then while he carries on to making breakfast, leaving the careful minding of the steeping leaves to Harry, Sirius emerges, already showered and dressed. He comes into the kitchen and steps up behind Remus to kiss the back of his neck, and then turns to Harry to kiss his forehead; when he does so, he pauses and breathes in deeply, and then gives Harry a sad smile. Harry returns it with a shrug, and Sirius doesn’t say anything—he’s made the same assumption Remus has, Harry thinks.

Remus finishes breakfast and they all eat quickly, not so leisurely as previous mornings. Remus has work soon, and he gets up and kisses Sirius and squeezes Harry’s shoulder before he heads out with a quiet goodbye for them both. Sirius and Harry still have a while before they need to head for Diagon, and Sirius has the paper to read, so they have a bit of quiet time. Then Sirius’s watch pings from its place in his pocket, informing them both that they’ll need to leave now if they want to make it to the Leaky Cauldron by half-eleven. They have to walk to the closest Apparition Point, and from there, Sirius takes Harry side-along to the pub. There’s a corner designated for those Apparating in, and after being squeezed as usual they appear there.

They step out together into the pub, and a faint hush falls for a moment as people notice and recognize Sirius. Then people return to their conversations, and Sirius bends slightly to put himself on Harry’s level and meets his eyes. “I need to go,” he says. “But be safe, alright? If anything happens, Floo back here to the Leaky, or to the hospital. Or ring Remus, if you can make it out into muggle London.”

Harry nods. He doesn’t have an easy way to get in touch with Sirius if there _is_ an emergency, but he has the phone number for Remus’s work. “I know, Sirius,” he says. “I can take care of myself, you know.”

“I know.” Sirius leans forward and kisses Harry’s forehead. “I’ll bring you all the gossip when I get home, hm?”

“Sounds good,” Harry says, smiling up at his godfather.

“And you’re having dinner with the Grangers, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry says. It’s a lie, but of course he doesn’t want Sirius to know anything about where he’s going this evening—and he’ll be telling the Grangers that he’s going to Floo home from the Leaky. Of course, the Doghouse’s Floo is sealed right now, the better to keep the wards tightly shut. He’s told Sirius and Remus that Hermione’s parents will drop him off at the flat.

“Alright, well, I’ll see you this evening.”

Harry nods, and then, because he doesn’t know when— _if_ —he’ll get another chance to do so, he says, “I love you, Sirius.”

Sirius smiles, an edge of delight to the expression that appears every time Harry says that. “Love you too, pup,” he says. He hugs Harry one last time, squeezing tight, and then lets him go. Harry waves as he walks away, weaving between the people in the Leaky Cauldron until Sirius is out of sight and Harry is on his own.

The Grangers are due to arrive at noon to meet him for lunch before the bookstore, so Harry goes to the bar and orders a butterbeer to kill time. He sits at the bar and watches Tom, the barkeep, do his business and sips from his bottle, letting himself think about nothing but the sweetness of the drink and the bustle of the Leaky Cauldron; it’s definitely distracting enough. Wixen of all descriptions come and go: young and old, clean and smelly, fashionable and unkempt. Some come to the bar and order; others choose tables, sitting down with friends for a meal and a drink; others still are only passing through, either out of Diagon Alley and into muggle London or the other way, toward the Alley to conduct business in the magical world. Some are in muggle dress, others in outlandish robes. Harry still doesn’t entirely understand magical fashion, for all Blaise’s attempts to teach him a thing or two; he just knows what he looks best in, what he prefers, which is more minimal than what many wixen seem to choose if left their choice.

The half hour passes quickly, and Harry is just draining the last drops of butterbeer from the bottle when he spots Hermione and her parents through the transitory crowds. He waves, and she waves back, then makes her way toward him, her parents trailing her.

“Hello, Harry,” Hermione says, once she’s near enough, and he hops down off his bar stool to accept her hug. “How are you?”

Harry smiles a little. “I’m alright,” he says. “Well as can be expected, anyway. And you?”

“Oh, I’m good,” she says. She glances over at her parents and seems to remember her manners fully, saying, “Harry, you’ve already met my mum, Helena; this is my dad, Rupert.” Hermione’s mum looks like her, even moreso now than last year, now that Hermione is a bit older, but Hermione clearly got her darker skin tone from her dad. Her mum is black as well, but lighter-skinned; Hermione has her dad’s rich dark brown skin and his clear, sharp hazel eyes.

Harry smiles at them, bows marginally, and says, “Nice to meet you for the first time, Dr. Granger, and you again, er… Dr. Granger, also, I suppose.”

Hermione’s mum gives Harry a pleased smile and says, “You go ahead and call me Helena and him Rupert, Harry—it’ll be quite confusing otherwise.”

“Yeah,” Harry says with a laugh. “Thanks.”

“Shall we go grab a bite?” Rupert says. He has a resonant voice, low and soothing; an image appears in Harry’s mind of Hermione as a small girl, being read stories in that deep voice, and it makes him smile a little.

“Yes, sir,” Harry says.

“Well, why don’t we see what we can find in that wonderful Alley of yours, hm?”

Harry and Hermione both agree eagerly, and make their way through the passage—Hermione opens it, having a better memory for patterns like the one necessary to open the archway—and into Diagon Alley. Noon on a weekday, the Alley is bustling and busy, people hustling to and fro, bright signs flashing the names of wares for sale in the shops and merchants with carts calling out to passers-by. Harry is struck all over again by the brightness and colour of Diagon Alley every time he visits; he hopes he never entirely gets over the wonder of it.

The Grangers seem just as struck, just as wondering; Harry recovers faster, thinking that perhaps he’s spent more time in Diagon than them, and guides their group over to the side of the alley so that they’re not wandering in the way of anyone in a hurry. They make their way up the Alley at a leisurely pace, and come to Gringotts before they find anywhere they decide is particularly interesting for a spot of lunch, so they pop into the bank first. The Grangers change muggle pounds for shining knuts, sickles, and galleons, and Harry rides down to his trust vault, key in hand, to retrieve a bag of coins. Hermione peppers him with questions on their walk away from the bank about the vaults and the goblins, most of which Harry can’t answer; he eventually tells her that they should look for a book on Gringotts in Flourish and Blotts later, which satisfies her curiosity for the moment.

They find a place serving bizarre sandwiches, which is magical enough for the Grangers to find amusing and light enough to suit the weather, and have a nice lunch. Helena and Rupert ask Harry about his studies and his plans for the summer, and Harry and Hermione discuss their shared electives and their planned summer readings. Harry mentions that he’s planning to focus on Animagus studies this summer, which gets Hermione interested; he describes the process to her a bit, and she nods seriously and says that perhaps she’ll look for a book on that, as well.

After lunch, they head for the bookstore. Helena and Rupert seem perfectly happy to do their own browsing and leave Harry and Hermione to it; Hermione of course immediately gets absorbed, so Harry is left mostly on his own for the first little while, wandering around to look at books on mind magic. It’s a small section, but then, he supposes, it would be hard to learn Occlumency from a book. Still, he picks up one of the more interesting-looking volumes, and then wanders back toward the transfiguration section, where he’d left Hermione muttering over a book about Animagi. On the way, he passes herbology and gets distracted there for a moment, ultimately picking out a book about the moon’s effect on harvesting practices, in hopes of earning a smile from Professor Sprout when he proffers some extra knowledge next term—it’s not like it’s not fascinating stuff, after all. He’s no natural like Neville, but plants are soothing, and he’s always found the connections between herbology and astronomy neat.

Then he continues on his way to transfiguration, and to his utter lack of surprise, Hermione is still there. He helps her find a book on the Animagus transformation that looks actually useful, and then the two of them go together over toward the section on runes. Hermione immediately selects a hefty tome on the history of runic magic in Britain; Harry finds a book on the use of the Greek alphabet in runic spellcasting, and then another from the same shelf on Sanskrit.

It’s nice to just… be with someone. His friendship with Hermione started with books, and they’ll always have books, and talking about books together will always be simple. Even having that grounding means their relationship has always been simpler than his friendships with most everyone else, and he _likes_ it. He can get lost in it for a few hours, reading bits of books, picking up things just because he’s curious, discarding them when they’re boring or too complicated. He and Hermione find her book on the history of Gringotts, and then about a dozen more books between the two of them on all sorts of topics, because why _limit_ themselves? Why put a cap on what they can know?

Harry doesn’t love books the way Hermione does, but he has come to love knowledge, especially in this past year. He’d never before appreciated the phrase _knowledge is power_ so very much, but now he definitely does—the things he’s learned have kept him alive, and will continue to do so, but only if he can continue to be prepared for what the world is throwing at him. With this, with spending this carefree afternoon buying books, he can maybe buy himself a few more carefree afternoons as well. Or at least he hopes so.

He doesn’t keep very close track of how long they spend in the bookstore, and Hermione’s parents seem no more inclined to hurry along than Hermione herself, but eventually Harry catches a glimpse of the window and realizes the afternoon is getting on. He still has some time before he has to meet Snape, but he doesn’t want to push it.

So he catches Hermione’s attention and suggests that they get ice cream, to which she reluctantly agrees. It’s at least another fifteen minutes before all three Grangers are successfully pried away from browsing, and they all make their purchases, Harry packing his books into his satchel, which was fortunately charmed yesterday night by Remus with a long-lasting Featherlight Charm. Fortescue’s is just down the way, so they go there and the Grangers insist on paying for Harry’s ice cream, even though he shows them that he has plenty of money left. He has a single scoop of strawberry; Hermione gets chocolate. Her parents both spring for bizarre magical flavours that Harry can’t quite identify. They eat and laugh, discussing the titles they picked up at the bookstore, and then walk back to the Leaky Cauldron. Inside the pub, Hermione wraps her arms around Harry in a huge hug, and says, “We’ll have to do this again!”

Harry nods, conjuring a smile. “We’ll do our school shopping together, if nothing else. And my birthday, of course.”

Hermione smiles at him, her large teeth shining against her dark skin. “And don’t forget to write!”

“I would never,” Harry promises solemnly, then winks.

Helena laughs. “You’re fine to get home on your own, Harry? Hermione said you were… Fleeing?”

“ _Flooing_ , mum,” Hermione says, sounding exasperated.

“That’s right,” Harry says. “Through the fireplace.”

“Oh, _Floo_ , like… well, that does make sense,” says Rupert. “Well, best of luck with that, lad.”

“Thank you, sir,” Harry says, and he makes a small half-bow to Hermione’s parents before waving to them as they leave. Then he checks his watch—it’s about half-past four, so he has some time to kill. Fortunately, he’s just bought a small library, so he settles into a booth and pulls out the book he bought on Greek runes. He reads for a half hour—it’s fascinating stuff, even the first chapters, which are all about ‘magic words’ on ancient Greek papyri and the way the ancients used language to invoke the ‘power of the gods’—and then decides that he’d better buy something if he’s going to loiter in the Leaky’s taproom. He gets himself another butterbeer and a basket of chips, and then returns to his booth to read more, and also pulls out a muggle mechanical pencil to make some notes in the book’s margin where he doesn’t understand the rune theory, though he’s careful not to get so absorbed that he loses track of time.

Eventually, he checks the clock again and realizes it’s only ten to six. Reluctantly, he packs up his book and his pencil, carefully tucking everything away into his satchel, and heads for the door that leads out into muggle London. He looks around, and then, since Snape doesn’t seem to be there yet, he leans carefully against the wall and double checks his belongings. His father’s necklace, check. His snake bracelet, the silver warm against his skin, check. His wand, stored in its wrist holster, check. His second wand, the rowan wand from the Potter vault, is also in its place in the holster strapped around his leg. It had only been luck that he’d had it on him at Easter, and he’d gotten no real use out of it then, but since then he’d carried it everywhere. Better safe than sorry.

With that done, he closes his eyes briefly and begins the work of setting his Occlumency into place, setting his protections and checking their edges for cracks.

“Potter.”

Harry opens his eyes, not quite finished with setting his Hogwarts labyrinth up, to find that Snape has appeared from nowhere and approached on silent feet; he’s nearly looming, dressed in black as usual, though wearing a heavier cloak than he does at Hogwarts, or than is really suited to the weather. Harry barely manages to keep from flinching, but meets Snape’s eyes stubbornly, deflects the Legilimency probe when it comes, and smiles. “Hello, sir,” he says. “Nice evening, isn’t it?”

Snape just stares at him, stone-faced. “Come along.”

“Oh, yes,” Harry says blithely, following along as Snape begins to walk deeper into muggle London. “Of course, I’m quite well. I hope your summer has been alright so far too, sir? Though we haven’t had much of it.”

“Enough,” Snape says. “Now is not the time.”

Harry’s smile twists, turns bitter, and he ducks his head to hide it, though he’s behind Snape and wouldn’t be seen anyway. “Of course, sir.” They walk in silence for a while; Harry doesn’t know where he’s being led, but decides it doesn’t matter. They’ll surely be Apparating elsewhere. Then he decides, no, he does have something more to say, and he jogs a little so that he’s walking by Snape’s side. It’s a little difficult to keep up with his long stride, but Harry manages, and under his breath he murmurs, “So. You’re a Death Eater.”

Snape shoots him an unreadable glance, but says nothing.

That’s not good enough for Harry, so he stops walking. Snape takes another few steps before he realizes and turns, meeting Harry’s stubborn green gaze once more. Something almost like a flinch passes over the professor’s face, a shadow of a reaction, and Harry smiles grimly. “We’ll have to talk about it eventually, sir. We’re in this together, now, no matter how much you hate me.”

“Rest assured,” Snape says smoothly. “I do not hate you.”

“So you’re just projecting on me your problems with Sirius, then?” Harry asks, then shrugs before Snape can answer. “I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. But I’d like to know what Vol—the Dark Lord said to you about me.” And what Dumbledore might have said, but… well, there’s a chance that Harry has been very wrong about Snape all along. He has a suspicion, but he doesn’t _know_ , and he’s not going to betray his status as a spy until he’s sure.

There’s a pause. Then Snape exhales, so steadily that it wouldn’t seem like a sigh on anyone else, but he’s so very measured in every other way that it’s noticeable. “Only to bring you,” he says, on the end of the breath. “We will talk after.”

“If I survive.” Harry smiles again at the faint widening of Snape’s eyes. “I’m not an idiot. But you knew that already, _sir_.”

“Hm,” Snape says, and then turns and waves to Harry over his shoulder. “Come along. We’re nearly there.”

‘There’ turns out to be a narrow back alleyway. The faint shiver that passes over Harry’s skin as they step in reminds him of the feeling of the wards at the Apparition Point near the Doghouse, so he figures that’s what this must be as well. Indeed, a few steps into the alley, Snape stops and turns to offer Harry his arm. His whole posture is stiff, and somehow gets even stiffer when Harry actually touches him, but no discomfort shows on his face; instead he simply turns on his heel once he’s satisfied with the strength of Harry’s grip and whisks them both away through the twist-squeeze of Apparition.

They reappear somewhere quiet, cooler than London had been, and Harry shakes away the dizziness of being brought side-along and looks around. They seem to have landed in a small copse of trees, and between the trunks Harry can see a distant low stone fence. Snape begins to walk in that direction, and Harry falls in behind him once more, wondering where exactly they are. As they pass through the trees to the edge of the copse, it becomes clear they’re on the outskirts of some wealthy family’s property—beyond the stone fence is a low, sprawling manor house with walls made of a dark grey stone that glitters in the setting sun. They skirt the fence for a ways until coming to a tall wrought-iron gate with stark, straight bars, over which is laid a panel with a crest depicting a sword surrounded by stylized flames. Snape reaches out and lays his hand on the panel, and after a moment there’s a brief flare of red light. The gates swing open before them, granting access to a winding path that leads up to the front doors of the house. Harry stays close to Snape’s heels, and the gates clang closed behind them shortly after they pass. Fortunately, it’s not far to get up to the doors, and Snape pushes one of them open, not bothering to knock.

The inside of the house is sparsely decorated, or at least the foyer is. The walls are painted a dark grey similar to the stone outside, and the floor is stark white marble with black lines tracing like lightning across it; nothing hangs on the walls, and there’s only a single small table holding a statuette of a gargoyle so twisted that it sends a shiver down Harry’s spine. There’s a pause when they enter, and then a sudden _pop_ which makes Harry tense, startled. But it’s only a house elf Apparating in in front of them, a skinny thing with green-tinted skin and ears long even for its kind. It makes a deep bow to them, and says in a squeaky voice, “Master and honoured guests is in the courtyard, sirs.”

Snape says nothing to the elf, just strides past it. Harry wants to thank it, but thinks that that’s not the sort of thing that Heir Black, soon-to-be Death Eater, would do. So he tucks away that impulse, and also takes the opportunity of the walk to finish prodding his Occlumency into its proper place. As he’d practiced the previous night, he makes sure that the doors to his inner Hogwarts are open, a tempting and literal doorway into the first few layers of his thinking, and that its curtains are closed, blocking out the light and any view of his heart and soul. Having organized his mind this way once makes it easier to do it again, and he finds when he’s done that he feels different, his emotions sitting differently in his chest than they had just a moment ago. He feels less bothered by his surroundings, by the implacable black of Snape’s cloak ahead of him and the _click, click, click_ of their footsteps on the hard floor echoing against the bare walls. He’s still not sure who would want to live in a place like this, but he’s more willing to tolerate their spartan tastes, he finds; he’s less unnerved. It’s probably a side-effect of hiding away all of his fear and uncertainty about the situation he’s walking into.

It’s a fairly long walk, at least. They wind deeper into this strange house, eventually coming to a doorway at the end of a hall before which Snape pauses. He reaches into an inner pocket of his cloak and withdraws a mask, bone-white and painted with black and silver lines, and places it carefully over his face. He pulls up his hood, as well, and then reaches out and opens the door.

The door opens to the outside once more, though Harry can tell at a glance as they step through that they’re not _really_ outside. As the elf had said, it’s a courtyard that he finds himself in, a square enclosure open to the sky and surrounded on all four sides by covered walkways with marble colonnades, like something he’d seen once in a primary school history book about the Romans. The centre of the courtyard is a grassy patch, well-groomed, and currently occupied by a number of other figures, cloaked, masked, and hooded like Snape is, all standing in a circle… and, at the far side of the circle, facing Snape and Harry, a single man who is bare-faced.

Voldemort, the Dark Lord, looks just like Harry remembers him. His dreams, his _nightmares_ , have been accurate as to the details of that handsome face, the aristocratic high cheekbones and straight nose, his dark red eyes the colour of fresh blood that pierce Harry even from across the courtyard. His hair has been tamed into a modern style, slicked back with a few strands left to lie across his forehead, black as the robes he wears. Harry knows he’s staring, but can’t force himself to blink, to look down or away. Voldemort stares back, and a faint smile crosses his face, his whole affect shifting from a commander’s severity to something entirely different. Not welcoming—more like sadistic, Harry decides.

“So,” the Dark Lord says, once Snape has joined the circle, filling the final gap. “You came.”

Harry bows deeply. “Of course, my Lord,” he says. It’s dead silent in the courtyard; he feels like his own breathing is deafeningly loud. “I said I would, did I not?”

“People lie.” Harry rises from his bow to see Voldemort looking around. “Particularly about their loyalties.”

A few members of the circle, still anonymous, shift or twitch slightly. Voldemort’s smile deepens. “Unmask,” he murmurs. “Let us see whose loyalties held true.”

No one hesitates. Almost in unison, as soon as the command is issued, the figures in the circle reach up and pull off their masks. Harry recognizes some of them—of course he does. He and Snape are standing directly across the circle from Voldemort, on whose immediate right is Lucius Malfoy. On Voldemort’s left are Nicodemus Flint, Marcus Flint—Marcus Flint, whose dark eyes are fixed on Harry, his expression stony—and then a woman that Harry thinks he recognizes from the Wizengamot session last summer as the Lady Flint, whose name he doesn’t know; and past her are the twins who had been present at Voldemort’s resurrection, Amycus and Alecto (Carrow, Sirius had said, the Carrow twins). Further to Malfoy’s right are Barty Crouch Junior, Asphodel Parkinson, Theodore Nott Senior, and Peter Pettigrew. On and on, until all of the faces in the circle are bared; some twenty-five wixen, many of whom Harry recognizes, more he does not.

Voldemort, too, is looking around, measuring and assessing, examining each of their faces, meeting eyes all around the circle. A few of the gathered Death Eaters flinch when he does so; those who know enough Occlumency to feel the invasion of their minds, Harry thinks. Those who have never learned the skill are probably better off, even if they are unprotected.

Voldemort skips past Harry on his first look around the circle, and Harry takes a deep breath when finally that gaze comes to rest on him again. He meets the Dark Lord’s eyes squarely and tries to prepare himself for the tearing pain of violation… but it doesn’t come. Instead, Voldemort takes one step into the circle, then another, and he raises his hands toward the darkening sky.

“I am risen,” he says. “And you all have returned to my side. That is a sign of your wisdom—though do not think that I have forgotten which of you stayed truly loyal, and which disowned their allegiance. Each will get the repayment that they have earned.” Malfoy cringes slightly; Pettigrew does too. “And some of you are new to this circle. That is wisest, for you have already seen the direction the future will turn, and you have chosen well where to pledge yourself. If a pledge is truly what your presence means.”

He hasn’t looked away from Harry. Harry bows his head slightly, but doesn’t break eye contact, and so doesn’t see the twist of the wrist that summons the Dark Lord’s wand into his hand. He has only the moment it takes for the Dark Lord to raise his wand to prepare himself, and then the crackling, jagged light of a nonverbal Cruciatus strikes him, and his whole body is torn apart. He feels like his skin is burning, his muscles tearing, bones breaking; it’s impossible to keep his feet and he collapses into the grass, twisting under the spell as he screams. Blind agony is all he knows and it goes on and _on_ , until he feels like he can hardly remember what existence without pain feels like—and then the curse lifts and he’s left lying there, gasping past sobs, the taste of blood in his mouth and his whole body trembling. Echoes of suffering flash through him, the aftershocks of an unnatural disaster.

Distantly, Harry hears Voldemort say, “Get him up, Severus.” A moment later, hard hands land on him, one digging claw-like into his shoulder to drag him to his knees and the other twisting into his hair to force his face up. He finds himself looking again into the bloody hue of Voldemort’s eyes, and _then_ comes the blade-thrust of Legilimency into his mind. Just like the first time, his outermost shields are nothing against the brutality of the Dark Lord’s strike, and in a moment Voldemort is an acid shadow slipping through the castle halls in Harry’s mind, breaking down doors and leaving jagged wounds wherever he touches. He tears through the rooms, digging out every secret that Harry had tucked away there, prodding at the buried emotions and staining the memories with rage and pain that is both the signature of his own mind and what his violation evokes in Harry.

No amount of self-discipline could have stopped Harry from struggling, and struggle he does, closing and locking doors as he can, bending hallways and moving staircases, trying to protect _some_ corner of his mind from the lightning probe of Voldemort’s Legilimency. It works, at least a little—it slows down Voldemort’s progress, at least… and keeps him from touching the curtains that ripple in the wake of his passing. Those remain firmly shut, and Harry keeps his thoughts far from them, focusing instead on keeping the Dark Lord out of the most deeply buried rooms, away from the highest shelves of memory in the library. Somehow, despite the distraction of the Cruciatus and the suffering the probe causes… it works. His true self, the sunshine of the outside, stays hidden; Voldemort sees the embittered Heir Black who might hate the Death Eaters, but only as much as he is disgusted by all of the rest of the magical world.

A small eternity passes—probably only a few minutes in the real world, but Harry’s sense of time is as shattered as the rest of him—and finally Voldemort withdraws. Harry blinks and reaches up with shaking fingers to wipe the tears and snot from his face, and to Voldemort he says, “I am sincere, my Lord.”

“Good,” Voldemort says, his voice nearly a hiss. He walks forward and lays one long-fingered hand on Harry’s face, cupping his cheek in a parody of a comforting gesture. “A wise choice indeed, Harry Potter.”

Harry says nothing, just waits until those cool fingers have left his skin and then bows his head again as best he can with Snape’s hand still wrapped tight into his hair. He closes his eyes, then, as Voldemort steps away to return to the centre of the circle. It worked. It _worked_ , and he’s going to live, but… this is only the beginning.

“It might seem strange,” Voldemort says, “to call this meeting today, on the longest day, when the Light is the strongest.”

As the Dark Lord speaks, Snape releases Harry, stepping back to his proper place in the circle. Harry shifts back as best he can and rises shakily to his feet, glancing at his professor. Snape’s face is bloodless, even more so than usual, but he looks unerringly at Voldemort; there’s no expression there at all for Harry to read. Fine. After it is.

“But,” Voldemort continues, and he makes a grand gesture toward the sky—the sun has set almost entirely, and Harry can see the first stars appearing, “it is not the daylight I am concerned with. It is the oncoming night—the creeping Dark, which will now only grow stronger. Each day after this, the night will last longer, be darker, stronger, and so too will we. The Light dominates—for now. It will not last. It will _never_ last, not while there is loyalty to the true heart of magic, the Dark and fundamental core of what makes us wixen. We, magical, possessed of inborn power beyond anything a muggle could imagine or the Light could ever create with their surface tricks and pale illusions, are the masters of the world, and the time has come for us to prove it, once and for all.

“I am reborn before you now and that is _proof_ , my loyal ones, of all that I say. The Dark will never, _can_ never, die, for magic is my ally and an ally even more powerful than death. You see before you proof of my power, my _right_ to walk foremost in this world, and I will lead you all to glory. No more will Dark mean hidden. No more will Dark mean shunned. No more will Dark mean _shamed_ for living wholly in the truth of what we are: masters of magic, and by that mastery, the rightful rulers of the world. We will smother the destructive fire of muggle influence that is slowly reducing our great society to cinders. No longer will the blinded Light be allowed to rise from the ashes of their mistakes—instead we will show them the truth of what they do in allowing the world to burn. And we _will_ be victorious. We cannot fail. _I_ cannot fail, cannot die, cannot _ever_ be defeated, for I have already defeated Death itself to return here to you and complete the task which fate has placed now within my grasp.”

The sun has finished setting as Voldemort speaks, and it is in shadow that he pauses and looks around at all of the Death Eaters surrounding him, measuring them again, assessing, meeting eyes and accepting as his due the looks of fervent devotion on so many of their faces. Harry’s eyes have adjusted slowly to the fading light, and though the lingering pain of the Cruciatus still itches beneath his skin, he is bothered less by that than by the clear commitment of every one of these people to the cause that Voldemort describes.

“You, my Death Eaters, have come back to me. And now I bid you: go out. Seek those sympathetic to our cause, and bring them to me as well. Grow our numbers, help us thrive, and begin the work of undoing all the damage that the Light has done. Further direction will come, but you know your task: to make our cause immortal, as I have become, and unstoppable, as I always have been. Go.”

A wave of a pale hand causes the Death Eaters all around the circle to bow, nearly as one. Once everyone has straightened, Lord Flint draws his wand and points it upwards, and murmurs a long incantation. When he finishes speaking, there’s a brilliant red flash, nearly blinding after long minutes in darkness. A moment later, a _crack_ announces Voldemort’s Disapparition. Once he’s gone, the others swiftly follow, one by one disappearing in a cascade of noise that leaves Harry reeling.

He flinches hard when Snape’s hand comes down on his shoulder once more, and then his professor hisses, “Grab me, you fool.”

Automatically, Harry obeys, and in the next moment they’re gone too. The crushing twist of Apparition is wretched in the aftermath of Voldemort’s torment, and Harry is near-blind with pain when they land; he can’t seem to get his limbs to cooperate, and he topples to his knees, then his roiling stomach objects to this final bit of abuse and he vomits abruptly onto the ground in front of him, only by luck avoiding throwing up _on_ himself.

Once he stops retching, he kneels there for a few long seconds, gasping for breath, and then swipes the tears off his face. He readjusts his glasses just in time for a potion vial clutched in a slender hand to appear in front of him, and he shoots a suspicious glance up at Snape.

“Drink it,” Snape orders, “unless you _want_ permanent nerve damage.”

Harry scowls, but nods and takes the potion. It doesn’t taste as awful as he’s expecting, but maybe that’s just in comparison to the taste of bile already in his mouth. Once he chokes that down, another potion is produced from somewhere within Snape’s robes, and without waiting for the order Harry drinks that one too; the second one tastes like mint, to his surprise, and completely clears the horrifying residue from his mouth. His head, too, feels somewhat clearer, and he looks around. They’ve appeared in the back garden of a rickety old house, its back wall once whitewashed wood panelling but now stained with age and disrepair. The house is narrow and dotted with dirty windows, and the yard around them is filled with scraggly plants—though, as Harry looks around more, he realizes that many of the things growing are magical plants and herbs, or mundane ones used for common magical purposes, and well taken-care-of; the garden only _seems_ disorganized and neglected.

“Where are we?” Harry asks.

“My home,” Snape says. “You will not be coming inside.”

“That’s fine.” Harry places his hands on the dirt and pushes himself up, and then brushes himself off as best he can. His robes are grass-stained, though, and he’s sure there are still tear tracks on his cheeks. “Can you clean me up before I go home? I can’t have Sirius and Remus asking questions.”

Snape narrows his eyes, but raises his wand. Harry can’t restrain a slight flinch at the gesture, but doesn’t cringe away entirely, standing as still as he can as Snape cleans his robes and then his face with nonverbal spells cast with precise gestures.

“I assume you have questions,” Snape says, once he’s done.

“Of course,” Harry says. “And I assume you have answers. But are you actually going to give me them?”

Snape narrows his eyes. “That depends on the question.”

Harry sighs. Then he lets his Occlumency relax a little, because he’s exhausted, and it’s not like Snape doesn’t know what’s in his head after all their lessons together in the spring. “Respectfully, sir, I think I’m too tired to play that game right now.”

Snape looks away, staring at his garden, and his mouth twists into a scowl. “Fine,” he says. “Know this, then, Potter: I am your ally. There will come a time when you cannot come to your dogfather, or to Dumbledore, but there is no issue you cannot bring to me.”

“Are you a spy?” Harry asks bluntly, and Snape turns sharply to glare at him.

“Yes,” he says, his voice acidic.

“For who?”

“Who do you think?”

Harry studies Snape’s face, his dark, narrow eyes, his large nose and thin lips, pursed into a scowl. Cold and sour and _mean_ , is Severus Snape, filled with vitriol and hate… and a sharp intelligence and determined focus, both keen enough to cut, when wielded correctly. “I would guess,” Harry says, “that that depends on who I asked.”

Snape’s expression turns to a wry, bitter smile; Harry has seen that expression before. It’s maybe the closest thing to real pleasure he’s ever seen on his Head of House’s face. “Very astute, Mr. Potter,” Snape says.

So Snape isn’t going to tell him the whole truth of who he’s working for. Harry supposes it doesn’t matter—if he’s a double agent, which seems to be the case, anything Harry tells him or asks him for is likely to be reported to both of the professor’s two masters. Better not to tell him anything at all, not unless he needs to. “You taught me, last year, how to _really_ protect myself,” Harry says, and taps his temple. “In here. Did you know, then, what was going to happen?”

Snape shakes his head. “You are a child, Potter. If either the Dark Lord _or_ the Headmaster ever listened to me, you would never have been placed in this position.”

“Both of them must trust you,” Harry says. “For you to have been able to retake your position so easily.”

“Of course,” Snape says. “I have never led my master wrong. But both sides trust me most to be a liar.”

“Your position is as precarious as mine,” Harry says quietly. The summer evening is cooling around them, and the chill of oncoming night soothes the fire burning beneath his skin until he feels almost himself again. But not quite—he might never really feel himself again, after even one single night spent kneeling at Voldemort’s feet. “I’ll try not to ask you for anything beyond your reach.”

“Nothing is beyond the reach of a Slytherin dedicated enough,” Snape replies. “If you are in trouble, Potter, _ask_.”

A smile as bitter as Snape’s earlier one slides across Harry’s face. “We’re all in trouble, sir,” he says. “Haven’t you heard? The Dark is on the rise—nothing will be the same.”

Snape closes his eyes, then bows his head briefly. “Indeed,” he says. Then he looks at Harry again and makes a dismissive gesture. “Get off my property and go home before your dogfather begins to fret. The front yard is warded against muggle attention; you may summon the Knight Bus there.”

“Thank you,” Harry says, and he makes a deep bow, a proper one, Heir-to-Heir, and then he goes. The front yard, like the back, is home to a garden of potion ingredients, and from there he holds out his wand to call the bus, which arrives swiftly. He fetches out his money to pay the conductor and finds a seat. The tumult of the bus ride revives the lurking nausea, but he manages not to vomit again before the bus stops and the conductor calls out the intersection Harry had specified as his stop. He steps off a few blocks from the Doghouse and walks, keeping an eye out for trouble, but all of the trouble is far away, dispersed into the night to begin the work of the Dark’s cause, and Voldemort himself is who knows where, waiting. Planning.

Harry lets himself into the Doghouse’s building and trudges up the stairs, feeling endlessly weary, and then has to dig around for a minute to find his key to the flat itself. Fortunately, it hasn’t gotten too deeply buried in his satchel, and then he’s letting himself back into the warmth of his home.

“Harry?” calls Sirius from the den.

“I’m home!” Harry calls back, and goes willingly to face the questions about his afternoon, shoring himself up against this one last effort toward deception before he can finally sleep.


	2. The General

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I remember breaking out my copy of _The Art of War_ when I was writing this chapter. Fun stuff, you guys. Very interesting.
> 
> Shorter chapter this time, but I hope you enjoy!

“Idiots!” Sirius growls, and flings down the Daily Prophet onto the kitchen table. “Still printing this _bullshit_ even after—”

“Sirius,” Remus says, placing a hand on his arm. “Language, honestly.”

“You know I’m right,” Sirius grumps, but he subsides. He can’t help it, though—it’s _infuriating_. He’s spent all of July trying to combat the lies being printed in the Prophet and spread by the Ministry, to no avail. Not even all the clout of the House of Black is enough to get them to back off entirely and retract their statements from just after Easter, their claims that Harry and Neville were liars or exaggerating or crazy, that Voldemort wasn’t really back. It’s willful blindness that’ll see half the magical world dead in the coming war, because no one is going to be _prepared_.

They’ve admitted, at least, that there must be some faction of Dark wizards active, perhaps some lingering supporters of Voldemort from the last war, and so perhaps civilians should consider being a little extra mindful until they are apprehended, and blah blah _blah_. Useless lip service that no one who isn’t already as paranoid as Alastor bloody Moody is going to take seriously.

“Papers again?” Harry says, wandering into the kitchen yawning. He looks well-rested, at least, and he’s slept late for once; that’s one good thing about the silence of Voldemort and his Death Eaters so far this summer. Harry has had time to recover, rest, spend some carefree time with his friends and with Sirius and Remus. He’s learned how to be a teenager, sleeping in and eating everything he can lay hands on (including far too much junk food, which Sirius tries not to complain about, since his diet was also terrible at that age) and sprouting up a few good centimeters. He’d looked no small amount like a corpse when he’d first returned after his and Neville’s kidnapping at Easter, and during the end of term he’d continued half-catatonic. Subdued, quiet, empty… he hadn’t been _Harry_. But Sirius’s pup has begun to come back to himself. He’d buried himself in books at first, but eventually he’d come out of his shell and returned to the lively, clever, cheerful boy that they’d had in their home last summer.

“Of course,” Remus says in reply to Harry, and snags him for a hug as he goes by, ignoring the mild squirming to squeeze him and then send him on his way to put together a plate of breakfast from the eggs and toast left on the counter under a Warming Charm. “What else, these days?”

Harry shrugs. “Sometimes it’s correspondence.”

“True,” Remus says, laughing, and reaches over to pat Sirius’s cheek. “Getting grumpy in your old age, hm, Padfoot?”

“Oh, shut up,” Sirius replies, rolling his eyes. “You’re as old as I am. Anyway, Harry, you know they deserve every bit of ire.”

“Sure,” Harry says, “but shouting about it over the breakfast table isn’t going to get much done.”

“Nothing will, apparently!”

Honestly, it’s not like Sirius isn’t _trying_. He’s given multiple statements to the papers, both by himself and in conjunction with Augusta Longbottom, tried to have injunctions issued, even considered suing for defamation—but it’s really too late for the latter. Most of the magical world is too bloody stupid to change their minds about something they’ve read in the paper, especially if it meant that they would actually have to _do something_ about the looming threat of war. They’re all much too content to be led like sheep to the slaughter, and Sirius is running out of ideas for how the bloody hell to make anyone listen. All he has left is to try to bring the problem before the Wizengamot, and hopefully motivate the upper classes to spread the news among their own circles. The Wizengamot has an awful lot of influence when they actually choose to exercise it, and Sirius has a faint hope that at the upcoming July session will yield results that his attempt to influence the media directly has not.

Part of it, he knows, is that Lucius Malfoy has a significant portion of the Prophet in his pocket. A significant portion of the _Ministry_ , really. Sirius functionally owns the DMLE, at least as far as politics go, but Lucius owns the Minister and the Prophet, and that’s all he really needs to get whatever he wants printed—and what he wants is for the populace to be completely unprepared when he and all his porcelain-masked buddies fall upon them like a rain of death. This confusion and refusal to act on the part of the Ministry is only to Voldemort’s advantage.

“Well, you’ll be sure to sway them at the Wizengamot,” Harry says, tucking into his eggs. With a full mouth, he continues, “They’re not _that_ stupid.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Sirius chides absently, then flushes when Remus shoots him an amused look. “I hope you’re right, Harry.”

Harry swallows his mouthful, and then with all the surety and pride of youth says, “I’m right.”

He sounds so much like James, Sirius thinks, half fondness and half despair. All that stubborn self-confidence, but in Harry it’s concentrated, compacted, turned to steel which laces the kid’s spine and makes him so firmly upright, so strong-willed and _determined_. Sirius doesn’t think he’s ever known someone so determined. Harry has dedicated his summer to grabbing up every bit of knowledge and strength that he can get his hands on. His Occlumency is genuinely slightly intimidating, more complicated by far than Sirius’s own shielding, which is adamantine-strong but fairly straightforward. Sirius doesn’t know where Harry learned to make layers and layers of branching mental pathways like he has, but he’s damn good at it—Sirius is no master Legilimens, and knows that if Harry wanted to keep a secret from him, mind magic would no longer be an avenue available to him to get at it. Not, of course, that he’d ever betray Harry’s privacy in that way.

And his other studies… he’s only just beginning his third year, but Sirius is pretty sure that Harry is casting at a fifth year’s level when it comes to Defence, and he’s a damn good duelist for his age. He’s doing all sorts of outside reading, too—not only in Defence, for which Sirius has furnished him with all of his own favourite texts, but also in Transfiguration as he works toward his Animagus transformation with new vigour, and Herbology, and Ancient Runes, and Potions. The latter Harry says is because Snape doesn’t actually _teach_ them anything, which Sirius could have guessed. The man’s a right bastard, of course he’s a terrible teacher.

It’s Lily’s studiousness showing, Sirius thinks, but it’s also… it’s just Harry. Harry’s determination to be the _best_. In part, Sirius thinks it’s that Harry knows he’s going to need to be prepared if he wants to make it through this war, but he also thinks—he doesn’t even know if Harry himself is aware of this—that there’s a part of Harry that just wants to be _better_. Wants to be strong, _powerful_ in a way that means something.

He’d grown up small, after all. He’d grown up being _made_ small. Sirius gets that. He’d felt the same as a teenager—it’s why he’d been such a bullying prat at Hogwarts. He’d turned his own anger at feeling so belittled outward, inflicted his rage and his bitterness on others, instead of turning that energy inwards like Harry does. It’s healthier, the way Harry’s going about his healing, or at least Sirius thinks so. Healthier for Harry’s friendships, at least. And Harry is just… a better person that Sirius ever has been. He’s a miracle, really; Sirius doesn’t know what he did to deserve this boy, who he loves so dearly.

His heart feeling warm and full, he leans over to ruffle Harry’s hair and says, “Alright, sprout?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Of course. You?”

“I’m fine,” Sirius says, stretches, and glances at the clock on the wall. It’s drawing near ten, which means… “I’d better go, probably.”

“Oh,” Harry says. “Meeting with Dumbledore, right?” When Sirius hums in agreement, Harry adds, “Say hello for me.”

“I’ll send him your best.”

“Me too,” Remus says, and leans over to kiss the corner of Sirius’s mouth softly. “You probably _should_ go. Prove to the old man that you can be punctual, for once in your life.”

“I’m very punctual!” Sirius protests, but gives Remus back his kiss, pressing his lips against that teasing smile, and then laughs at Harry’s mildly grossed-out expression. He points at Harry’s nose, grinning at the way Harry’s eyes cross, and says, “You’ll want to kiss people someday, pup, and on that day I _will_ laugh at you for having made that face.”

Harry’s face flushes a little, and he just shakes his head. “Whatever, Sirius.”

Sirius gets up from the table and comes around to kiss the top of Harry’s head, and then he bids both Harry and Remus a final adieu and heads for the door. He has plenty of time, really; he’s meeting Dumbledore not at Hogwarts, but at Grimmauld Place.

He’d offered the hopeless old townhouse to Dumbledore as a new headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix at the start of the summer, and while he hates having to visit it, he knows it was a good decision. The place had wards up to its ears, of course, and Dumbledore has placed a Fidelius charm as well. Not every member of the Order was in on the Secret, at least not just yet—one of their first tasks was the ongoing process of vetting each and every person, even those who’d fought with them in the last war. They’d started with Kingsley, Moody, and Nymphadora, whose Auror resources were making it much easier to vet the rest, not to mention keeping an eye on the situation within the Ministry; they’d also easily passed the Weasleys; Remus, of course; and Arabella Figg, who had been and still was a highly valuable pair of eyes in the muggle world. The old crowd is coming back together smoothly for the most part, and those of the next generation who’ve already done their growing up are sure to be good resources. Some of the past year’s Hogwarts graduating class might be good allies as well, Sirius muses, and makes a mental note to bring that up with Dumbledore in their upcoming meeting.

He Apparates from the alley near the Doghouse to the corner of 13 Grimmauld Place’s block, and wanders down the street casually, keeping an eye out for any watchers. The Fidelius, after all, doesn’t entirely preclude surveillance. Narcissa knew the address of the Black family manor at one time, and could have told anyone about it prior to the Fidelius; though they would all have forgotten the exact address, they might still remember its general location, and from there be able to watch for any known members of Dumbledore’s crowd coming and going. However, they haven’t managed that much yet—the street is quiet, and Sirius steps unhindered onto the property, feeling the wards pass over his skin in a feeling like a shiver.

The door opens at his touch, of course; he’s the Lord of the House of Black, and no one could bar this door against his entry. Within, well… it’s a nightmare as always. At least the damn place is clean—and hadn’t that taken all his willpower to get done. He’d avoided it for as long as he could, even after his mother finally kicked the bucket, but shortly after becoming Lord Black his sense of duty had gotten the worst of him and he and Remus and a few others had spent several weeks living in the wretched place and scrubbing it from top to bottom—and rooting out all of the various heirlooms and tomes of knowledge that the Blacks had squirrelled away over the years. No few interesting items had come of that search; most are locked away in the house now, too cursed to be sold and too valuable to be destroyed. Sirius suspects that Kreacher had hidden a few things away in his nest, but for all that he dislikes the elf, he isn’t about to invade his privacy to quite _that_ degree. He’s not Lucius Malfoy, after all, to treat his bonded servant like a slave.

“Albus?” Sirius calls down the hall as he steps in and hangs his cloak on a hook.

“In the kitchen!” comes Dumbledore’s voice, and Sirius follows it to find him seated at the table, considering a copy of the Prophet.

“Why are you bothering with that dreck?” Sirius asks.

Dumbledore looks up at him. “For all that it is a muggle work, I’m sure you must be familiar with _The Art of War_ , Sirius.”

“ _All warfare is based in deception?_ ”

“Ah,” Dumbledore says, and smiles faintly. “I had thought more of _know your enemy_ , though I suppose your suggestion applies as well.”

“And it’s not like I’m not _known to be_ _of choleric temper_ , if we’re talking about their strategy rather than ours,” Sirius says, and slumps into a chair with a sigh. “It _is_ infuriating.”

“Indeed,” Dumbledore says, and folds the paper, pushing it to the side. “But we will persevere, Sirius. We are still in the earliest days.”

“I know,” Sirius says. Of course, that only means that things will get worse and not better from here. But they have time. “How goes our hunt for allies?”

“Well,” Dumbledore says. “So far as I have been able to learn, at least as of this moment, Pettigrew was the only spy in the Order. Or at least the only one I did not already know about.”

“Snape?”

“Has not been summoned.”

“Are you concerned he’s been compromised?” Sirius asks. He wouldn’t mourn if Snape bit the dust, of course, but the man _is_ a resource, and if Voldemort suspects him they could be being fed bad information, or lose their inside man entirely.

Dumbledore tilts his head, considers, and then shakes it. “I do not believe so, no. But I have a contingency, should we lose Severus.”

This is the first Sirius is hearing of it, and he frowns. “What sort of contingency? Another Death Eater switching sides?”

“Not as such.” But before Sirius can ask any more questions, Dumbledore raises a hand to forestall him. “I am sorry, Sirius, but it is a delicate situation. I cannot risk my contingency, as it is the only one I have and…”

“It’s someone’s life,” Sirius posits quietly. “Fine. I understand. But you know I would never betray them, even if they were my worst enemy. I haven’t betrayed Snape.”

“No, I know you would not,” Dumbledore says, and then blatantly changes the subject, asking after Sirius’s plans for continuing to feel out members of the Wizengamot for those who might be willing to aid the war effort. _Deception_ , Sirius thinks to himself, but lets it slide and answers the question. There are some who he knows will be easy to bring to their side, and others who surely sympathize but whose political situations make it difficult for them to act openly; he has plans for both. But first he wants the bloody papers dealt with, and he says as much.

“It might be more difficult than you hope,” Dumbledore warns. “Most of those in the Wizengamot are allies of the Ministry, or at least unwilling to gainsay it.”

“I know that,” Sirius says. Honestly, for all he knows Dumbledore respects him, he has a tendency sometimes of forgetting that Sirius is no longer sixteen and an idiot. “But I have to _try_ , don’t I? What good is being Lord Black if I can’t _do_ anything?”

Dumbledore just nods solemnly. “I will support you as best I can, Sirius, but they have targeted me quite effectively as well.”

“I know,” Sirius repeats. “I _know_ that this will be a challenge, but it’s one I’m willing to take on—and carry into the school year if necessary.”

“Thank you,” Dumbledore says. “Your voice _has_ effected positive change in the Wizengamot, Sirius, no small part because you have effected any change at all. It is, unfortunately, a staid body at the best of times, but you are young and passionate and dedicated to the improvement of this world and the defence of its most vulnerable, and I am sure you will prevail. Eventually, if not immediately.”

Sirius bows his head briefly in a nod of acknowledgement, then says, “I wondered if I might take advantage of my connections in another way in this coming year. Let me know what you think of this, but, well… there was a promising crop in NEWT-level Defence this last year, and even among those in their OWL year. I don’t want to be bringing anyone underage into this war, but those who _are_ coming of age have the right to choose if they want to be involved, and they might accept information about the state of things if it came from me.”

Sirius had emphasized last year how much he wanted the students to be prepared for _real life_. Real situations, real dangers. For those who are duped by the papers into thinking him a liar, there’s little he can do, but… reaching out couldn’t do any harm. He thinks in particular of the Slytherins, those who might only need someone on Dumbledore’s side to reach out to them and tell them that it’s _alright_ to take a stand for what they believe is right, even if it means going against family and friends. Sirius doubts he would have been so charitable even a year ago, but Harry’s Sorting into Slytherin and the many conversations they’ve had in this past year about his classmates and Housemates have opened Sirius’s mind to the fact that the Slytherins… well, many of them are the children of terrible people, and influenced by that, but as many as wonderful people themselves—and moreover, they are still _children_. Children with potential to make better choices than the choices of those from which they spring. And, well, _forage on the enemy_. There’s only gain to be had in poaching from the Dark.

Dumbledore is nodding slowly, clearly thinking it over, and then says, “That seems like a promising avenue, yes. Reach out to the students at your discretion, then, Sirius, though I agree that you should not approach anyone underage.”

“Of course,” Sirius says. He pauses and stretches, reaching his arms above his head, and looks around the kitchen, with its old wooden cabinets and lingering cobwebs, even after the thorough scrubbing; the place is probably enchanted to be gloomy forever. “You know, my younger self would be jumping for joy if he could know what would become of this house.”

“Headquarters for a secret society?”

Sirius snorts. “Sure, but mostly that what we do here would piss off dear old mum.” He shakes his head, then brushes an errant lock of hair from his face. “I was a brat.”

“You suffered,” Dumbledore replies, compassion in his tone. “I would never blame a child for disliking—even hating—those responsible for his suffering.”

Sirius turns to peer at Dumbledore, hearing something odd in his tone, and catches the edge of a sorrowful look before it’s again hidden. “You know,” Sirius offers, “none of the students who choose to fight in this war will blame you for its existence. _Someone_ has to lead the Light, and you’re the best man for the job.”

“Perhaps.” Dumbledore laces his fingers on the table. “But I am still the one pulling many people’s strings, and so they would not be in the wrong to blame me if harm comes to them.”

“You’re not going to let that stop you, though,” Sirius says with a shrug. “So there’s no point in feeling guilty about it now. We all have to do what we must to win this war, Headmaster—if reparations need to be made for the means that get us to that end, they can be made after. If we even make it out alive.”

“And if I do die?” Dumbledore says, fixing Sirius with a piercing look. “If I die, no one will be able to make those reparations on my behalf. There will simply be a void, a legacy of damage done.”

Sirius shrugs again and sits forward to slide his hands down onto the table, as if flattening a sheet of paper before him. “Maybe so. And I _do_ believe that there are lines that we shouldn’t cross in fighting this war, or we become no better than them. But there are also lines that we’re going to _have_ to cross, and you know it as well as I—it’s not like either of us likes it, Albus. All we can do is our best to protect those who cannot or _will_ not protect themselves. We can apologize to those we failed when it’s over.”

Dumbledore lets out a long, slow sigh, and slumps back slightly in his chair, looking for a few moments very much his age. He’s an old man, Sirius thinks, looking at him. Old and tired, with the weight of half a society or more resting on his shoulders. He’s wise and powerful, and there’s certainly no one better to replace him, but… it’s clear that Dumbledore’s commitment to the greater good weighs on him, at least at times. If anything, though, that makes Sirius feel more confident in his faith in the Headmaster’s leadership; the man has a heart and a conscience, and will follow them both whenever possible, even to the detriment of himself.

Maybe everything will be alright. Sirius is a reluctant optimist, but things are not so very dire yet. They have an opportunity to make this right before it all goes too wrong, no matter what Dumbledore may think about the cost of their means. Yes, war has a cost; it always does, and this one will too. But if they are smart, and quick, and savvy… maybe, just maybe, all will turn out for the better, and the magical world will be saved.

* * *

“The Wizengamot is a pack of irredeemable pricks with their heads stuffed so far up their arses that they’re breathing shite, which maybe explains why they spew so much of it, and they don’t deserve a single fucking thing we’re doing to try to save this bloody bedamned world!” Sirius shouts, and slams the door behind himself for good measure.

“Language!” Remus shouts from the den, sounding genuinely somewhat scandalized.

Sirius can’t bring himself to care. He nearly tears his robe as he wrenches it off his shoulders, and _does_ in fact wrench his shoulder slightly, which only stokes the flame of anger burning in his gut. He stomps into the den and finds a wide-eyed Harry and a narrow-eyed Remus there waiting for him. As soon as he appears, Remus says, “ _You’re_ certainly in a mood. I take it the session didn’t go well?”

“They don’t _listen!_ ” Sirius says, his voice still raised. “They don’t _care_! There’s no bloody way to explain to that horde of misbegotten idiots that they should _care about other people_ and _have some damned respect_ instead of dragging in whoever they bloody well want to their stupid games in order to pander to their selfish whims! They have no respect, no regard for the things that really matter, and at this point I’m well ready to let Voldemort can have the bloody lot of them! See if I fucking care!”

“ _Sirius_ ,” Remus says, his voice harsh now, and Sirius looks up and realizes that Harry has cringed back into the corner of the couch, his book held up like a shield between himself and his godfather. It’s enough to make Sirius wilt.

“Sorry, Harry,” Sirius says. The effort to gentle his tone scrapes his throat raw, but the whole _point_ of this is that Harry matters the most, more than anything else. No good terrifying him, is it? “Sorry, I—“

“It’s alright,” Harry says hurriedly. He lowers his book. “You’re just mad, it’s okay.”

“I’m not mad at you, I promise,” Sirius says. He scrubs a hand through his hair, dislodging the tie, and has to stoop to scoop it up. When he’s upright again, some of the rage has subsided, and he tries to blow the last of it out on a hard breath.

“I know,” Harry says quietly. “It’s okay, really. What happened?”

“It didn’t go well,” Sirius says, and comes to sit in his armchair, flopping down into the comfortable plush piece of furniture, worn to the shape of his body over the years he’s owned it. It’s _so_ ugly, but it’s so damn comfortable that he can practically feel the stress draining from him.

“No—kidding,” Remus sighs, with a pause that indicates that he almost said _no shit_. He always did echo Sirius’s speech patterns easily. “That doesn’t tell us what _happened_ , Sirius.”

“Sorry.” Sirius scrubs his hands over his face, his elbow braced on his knees, and then consciously forces himself to relax and sit back; when he looks up, he’s glad he’s done it, because he can see the anxiety in Harry’s posture. They’ve had about three cumulative months of living together, and Harry trusts him, but that’s not enough to cancel out eleven years of living with an abusive sack of shit like Vernon Dursley. Harry still hasn’t talked about it, but in their Occlumency lessons Sirius has seen a few memories—Vernon had frequently been angry, and used his size and body language to frighten his small nephew. No wonder Sirius’s frustration puts his godson on edge. Damn it. “They just… won’t do a damn thing to stop the papers.”

“Why not?” Harry demands, immediately incensed. “They’re lying!”

“I know,” Sirius says. “And I’d guess most of the Wizengamot knows that too. Unfortunately, I haven’t got any actual _proof_ that Voldemort has returned other than your and Neville’s word, and the Wizengamot as a body is much more concerned with keeping up the status quo than they are with actually preparing anyone for the war.”

“I’m _Heir Black_ ,” Harry says, incredulously. “And Neville is Boy-Who-Lived! Why isn’t our word good enough?”

“If you were saying things they liked, it would be,” Sirius says, “or if you were… different from who you are. Unfortunately, Neville’s been kept out of the public eye for most of his life—which is to Augusta’s credit, in my opinion, but obviously others don’t feel that way. And it means that for all that he has the title, he doesn’t have much _reputation_ beyond what came from the actual _event_. As for you… you’re still relatively unknown in political society, Harry. You came out of nowhere, and you’re not my blood heir, which unfortunately loses you some clout.”

“And you spent a lot of political capital forcing me into the position,” Harry says sourly. “Right.”

Sirius gives a half-shrug. “That and… I’m not exactly a typical Lord Black. I’ve managed to hold onto my position, but I’ve really only begun re-consolidating power. In another year, maybe what I said would go, but I’m not in that position now. Particularly not when I’ve got powerful enemies on the Wizengamot—Lucius Malfoy first and foremost, but Lords Flint and Nott, too, and of course their entire body of vassal Families and allied Houses, some of whom are quite powerful. And the Neutrals don’t want to believe it’s true, either.”

“ _Ugh_ ,” Harry says, emphatic. Only a few minutes ago, he’d been using his book as a shield; now he looks like he wants to throw it. “So what do we do?”

“Well, we have… one potential avenue,” Sirius offers, a little hesitant. He does not, by all the small gods, want to even mention this, because he knows what Harry’s going to say. But he also knows that Harry would never forgive him if there was something he could do to help and Sirius prevented him. “It was… suggested at the session that they might better believe the story if the Wizengamot heard the tale of Voldemort’s resurrection from the horse’s mouth, as it were.”

Harry looks up, startled, and meet’s Sirius’s eyes. Round and green and unobscured by the clean lenses of his glasses, his gaze is so much like Lily’s—right down to that razor sharp spark of intelligent realization, calculation… and then resolve. “They want me to speak?” Harry asks, though it’s only half a question—he knows.

“Yes,” Sirius says reluctantly.

“So I’ll go,” Harry says.

Sirius holds up a hand to put pause to that, meets Remus’s eyes for a moment. Lily’s bloody stubbornness, too, and both of them know it, but… well, Sirius can at least _try_. “You don’t have to do that,” he says.

“I want to,” Harry insists. “We need to get this straight. People need to be _ready_ , don’t they?”

“Of course,” Sirius says. “Of course they do. But you don’t need to—“

“I apparently do,” Harry says, firm, forthright; he always is. More straightforward than any Slytherin Sirius has ever met, honestly—but then, Reg had been that way a bit, hadn’t he? Learned it from Sirius more than their parents, but Regulus had always been unyielding and unabashed about his pursuits. Quieter, maybe, than Sirius was, more careful… but just as bullheaded when the moment came, charging forward toward whatever it was he wanted and never apologizing.

What is it about today, Sirius thinks, that has him remembering, thinking back? Maybe it’s just the mounting pressure of everything, the frustration and the fear… and his desperation to protect this boy looking back at him now. This boy who wants to protect them, too, in whatever way he can. Well, Sirius really can’t begrudge him, can he?

“Alright,” Sirius says, sighs, really. “But we’re going to do a _lot_ of preparation for this, alright? I know Easter is still difficult for you to talk about, and they’re going to _grill_ you.”

“Will Neville be there?” Harry asks quietly.

“I don’t know,” Sirius says. “I’m going to guess not—Augusta is unlikely to allow him to speak or be spoken to, even if he is there.”

“She’s not doing him any favours,” Harry mutters, probably not meaning to be heard, so Sirius doesn’t comment. He agrees, but anyone who tries to tell Augusta Longbottom she’s doing something wrong is a bloody idiot. She’ll learn. Sirius just hopes it won’t be Neville’s death that teaches her. There’s a pause, and then Harry continues, at a more normal volume, “Will it work?”

Sirius exchanges another look with Remus, and it’s Remus who answers this time. “Impossible to know,” he says, with that kindness in his voice, that softness that Sirius has never quite had. He’s got too many scars, too many jagged edges. But Remus has always had compassion enough for the both of them. “All we can do is try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dumbledore is both one of the most difficult and one of my FAVOURITE characters to write. Balancing his genuine kindness, wisdom, and compassion with his ego and his utilitarian ethics is really challenging, but also kind of fun. No man more dangerous than one who thinks he's right, and all that.


	3. A River in Egypt

Harry gets a lot of mail from his friends as the end of July—and with it, his birthday—approaches. Hermione, somewhat bloody-minded as always, is less than convinced by his letters telling her that he’s fine, that Sirius and Remus are wonderful to live with, that couldn’t they just discuss the contents of some of their new books? Instead she insists on saying that Harry should talk about what happened to him—and he will, he tells her. He’s going to tell the Wizengamot all about it, and that’s more than enough. Theo’s letters are just as insistent, though very differently. His father, he says, had mentioned Harry not long after the solstice, had said that Theo should watch out for him. What happened? When did Harry meet Lord Nott? What had he said or done? Harry doesn’t know how to explain to Theo that it wasn’t like he was probably imagining. Instead he writes, _things are going to be really different now. I don’t know what’s going to happen, because a lot has changed for me recently, but you’re probably not going to like it. But you know what to do when things get bad_. Then he hopes that Theo will be very, very careful.

Neville and Blaise both ask about Harry’s birthday, and Harry writes back and tells them that he’s not sure. He tells Sirius and Remus the same when they also ask what he wants to do, and they look at him and then at each other, and then Remus suggests gently that they just have a quiet dinner to themselves, and Harry can perhaps see his friends another time. Harry is surprised by the amount of relief that that gives him, and he ducks his head and nods and lets them take over the planning. He tells himself he’ll write his friends and make plans to see them, but… whenever he sits down to write a reply to another letter, he doesn’t do it; he decides instead, every time, that he’s just feeling a bit too tired, too distracted, and he’s too busy with preparation for the August Wizengamot session.

Truthfully, not seeing his friends _does_ give him plenty of time and quiet to prepare for the Wizengamot. It’ll be worse, he knows, than last summer; they hadn’t even really asked any questions about the Dursleys during his assumption of the Heirship, and Sirius had been able to shield him from what debate there had been, but he’ll have no such advantage this time around. He’s sure they’ll be awful, and he wants to be ready for anything that they might say. If he breaks down in the middle of telling the story, it’ll only make him look weak, so he stands in the middle of his room and he practices telling it over and over again until his voice stops cracking down the middle, turning to a whisper, flooding with tears. He forces himself to remember all of the details, every line of Voldemort’s face, the heat of the fire and the dancing shadows, Pettigrew and Crouch and the Carrows’ raw voices chanting.

He’d told a scattered version to Sirius when he’d first stumbled through the fireplace into the lobby at Saint Mungo’s, had shouted to anyone that would listen that Voldemort was _back_ , he was back, he was coming—everyone had thought he was insane, then. They still do now, or at least the papers say so, and he knows that even among his friends not everyone had believed him when he and Neville first started saying that the Dark Lord had risen again. Blaise hadn’t, and Theo… Harry thinks Theo hadn’t wanted to. He’s not sure about the older Slytherins—Gemma, he thinks, believes him; she’d sent a short owl telling him that she was here if he needed anything over the summer, but Gemma isn’t all of Slytherin.

This Wizengamot session isn’t going to help, Harry thinks. The Ministry isn’t going to take the word of a thirteen year old boy against that of its most trusted advisors, not even a boy backed by the power and influence of the House of Black. But if he can change even one mind, it’ll be enough. He doesn’t care what the papers say about him; he just wants as many people as possible to get through this war. Including himself, if he can, though after the solstice his hopes aren’t _high_.

But one day at a time. July ends, and he turns thirteen. He and Sirius and Remus have a cake, and Remus kisses his forehead and Sirius ruffles his hair, and they play card games and tell jokes until Harry forgets that there’s a war on. Remus gets him another new series of novels and Sirius gets him a hand-curated basket of joke supplies from Zonko’s and the promise of a shopping trip to get Harry another few new robes, so that he can look as “spiffy” (Sirius’s word, of course) as he wants. Harry’s Hogwarts letter has also arrived, including a permission form for Hogsmeade visits, which Sirius presents signed with a flourish, to Harry’s pleasure.

August is hot and slow and steady. Harry practices telling his story to himself until he stops looking upset when he looks at himself in the mirror, until he actually stops _feeling_ so upset, and then he goes and practices telling it to Sirius and Remus. That’s different, because he can see the pain and the rage tucked around the corners of their eyes and sitting heavy on the downturn of their mouths, and they ask him clarifying questions that bring up new details that he’d somehow forgotten: the musty smell of that room, the feeling of Voldemort’s wand pressed to his throat, the pain in his ribs from being kicked by Carrow. They hate it and he hates it and everyone _hates_ it, but it has to be done. It _has_ to, or that’s what Harry tells himself to keep himself going. He’ll tell the truth if it kills him.

He’ll tell the truth about _this_ if it kills him, is what he remembers when he’s lying in bed at night, staring at his shadow-black ceiling and thinking about the _other_ time he’d seen Voldemort’s face. He can’t tell anyone about that, not now, probably not for a very, very long time. If ever. He tucks that secret deep inside, wraps it in black shadow and arrogance and feeling-small, all the bitter badness that he’d used to pretend he was someone he wasn’t when Voldemort was in his head, and he keeps it.

When Harry isn’t clutching tight to his secrets or talking himself hoarse telling his story, he reads. He reads about Ancient Runes and warding because it might save a life one day; about astronomy and herbology, because it’s interesting; about the next step to becoming an Animagus, because he almost feels ready. He reads about duelling strategy and defensive spellwork, magic he’s not ready for and magic he already knows, and tries to narrow the gap between those things. And when he isn’t reading, he’s flying, letting the rush of the wind erase everything else in his head, or he’s running until the soreness in his legs and his lungs wipes out the pain and fear tied in a knot in his gut. Sirius teaches him how to dance, too, and it lends him a little bit of grace, though he usually still feels like he’s got more limbs than he knows what to do with. He almost feels like he’s growing up. He gets taller. He eats his weight in treacle tart, when Remus lets him. He marks off the days on the calendar as the moon grows full, and Remus gets irritable and prowls around Harry and straightens the house up with anxious, restless energy until Sirius takes them both out to the moor to run until the moon is hiding her face once more. Then he marks the days as the moon wanes again, and Remus wakes up earlier and Sirius sleeps later, Remus goes back to work and Sirius becomes busy with pre-session Lordship business. The latter Harry is often included in: meetings with vassal Heads, with allied Houses, teas and dinners which are filled with double talk, and straight dealings over paperwork in meeting rooms at Gringotts. It’s interesting, even if a lot still goes over Harry’s head.

August’s new moon is on the 17th. It feels both far too early and far too late. But the day comes, and Harry gets up in the morning and dresses himself carefully, one layer at a time: underclothes, then shirt and trousers, then a black vest with silver filigree buttons, and then a black over-robe, worn open and unrelentingly obsidian over the rest of his clothes. When he looks at himself in the mirror, he looks somber, his hair wild but the rest of him stark and clean. His eyes are bright green against his brown skin, and he touches his own cheek, thinking about the distant land of his ancestors and how little he knows about them. He doesn’t know if they’d be proud of him for the way he’s representing his family. Probably not.

Harry sighs, gives himself a nod in the mirror, and goes out to have breakfast. When he steps out into the kitchen, he realizes that he’s managed to sleep in—Remus is absent, and Sirius is already up and dressed, scowling at the Daily Prophet with a cup of tea in hand. Maybe not a surprise that he’s slept late, actually; he’d been up for a long time the previous night, tossing and turning as he worried about the coming day.

“Morning,” Harry says.

Sirius looks up and a smile breaks past his scowl. “Morning, pup,” he says.

Harry finds a plate already made up for him on the counter, a warming charm cast over it, and he brings it to the table to sit across from Sirius and scarf down the food, quick but careful not to spill on himself. When he’s done, Sirius sets down the paper and looks at him squarely across the table.

“Do you feel ready?” Sirius asks bluntly.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Harry says. “I’m not going to give up now.”

“No,” Sirius says, half on a sigh. “I didn’t think you would. I do believe in you, you know that?”

Harry nods. “I’m going to be fine, Sirius. You don’t need to worry.”

“I’m going to worry about you until the day I die,” Sirius says. “And probably after. But I know you can take care of yourself—I know exactly how capable you are. The Wizengamot won’t know what hit them.”

Harry smiles. “Thanks, Sirius.”

Sirius gets up and comes around the table to hug Harry close for a moment. “You are very welcome, pup. Now come on, we’ve got appointments to keep, and you slept away your morning leisure time.”

Harry nods and darts back to his room to fetch his satchel, packed last night with a book and some snacks and a water bottle, and then returns to Sirius’s side. They Floo to the Ministry—separately, as Harry has now been granted permission to Floo directly through the Ministry’s wards—and then head for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Sirius has an appointment with an archivist to get his hands on legal precedents for libel, and they both have an appointment with Amelia Bones.

The DMLE offices take up the entirety of Level Two of the Ministry, a sprawling warren of rooms and hallways. Sirius has explained the structure of the Ministry to Harry before, and Harry knows how influential this department is, how important their work can be. This means, of course, that the floor is a hub of activity, with memos flitting about and people striding to and fro, carrying files and papers, chatting with colleagues, and dictating to hovering quills. Many wear the red robes of Aurors, some of whom nod to Sirius as he and Harry pass. They first head back far from the elevator to the archival rooms, and Sirius has his brief meeting—the archivist is organized and has the paperwork ready for Sirius when they arrive. He collects the file, shrinks it, and tucks it carefully away into his pocket for later study. Then they head back out into the halls and toward the office of the Head of the DMLE. Madame Bones has a secretary who greets them, then pokes her head into the main office to announce them. When she re-emerges, she waves them straight through into a tidy office with furniture made of a light wood. A large forest landscape hangs on the back wall, deep and mysterious and consuming, with magical fireflies flitting through the shade and the occasional shadow of a beast or bird passing through.

Amelia Bones, seated in front of the painting, is a formidable-looking older woman with greying blonde hair tied into a severe ponytail; clear, pale blue eyes like those of her niece; and robes tailored to emphasize the breadth of her shoulders rather than minimize it. She welcomes Sirius politely to her office, and then says, in her low, frank voice, “What brings you here today, Lord Black, Heir Black? Not that I’m not happy to see you, but there _is_ a Wizengamot session in only a few hours.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Sirius says. “Just a courtesy call, Amelia. I’m not sure yet if I’ll have the support, but I’m considering attempting a libel suit against the Prophet, and you’ll see me trying to lay the groundwork for that today.”

“Hm,” says Madame Bones. She gives Harry a keen look. “Well, I can’t say I don’t understand why you want to. But I think your chances are poor, Sirius.”

“I know,” Sirius says. “But Harry’s a good talker.”

“Hm,” she says again. “And you, Heir Black? What do you think of your chances?”

Harry restrains himself from shrugging. He considers being honest, because she’s been very forthright, and then decides that that’s a bad tactic; while he thinks it over, she waits patiently. He clears his throat and says, “Do _you_ believe me, Madame Bones?”

To his surprise, she laughs. “Oh, very smart. If you look every one of those fools on the Wizengamot in the eye and ask them just like that, you’ll have the whole room under your thumb.” She turns back to Sirius and says, “I still don’t think much of your chances, Sirius, but if it looks like things will go your way, I’ll suggest the libel suit.”

Unspoken: if the deniers hold sway, she’ll remain silent, and Sirius will have to wait for a better opportunity. He can’t go after the Daily Prophet by himself, and if Harry fails to sway enough members of the Wizengamot at this session, Sirius will still be lacking the allies he needs to actually win that battle. Harry takes a breath, steels himself, and tunes back into the conversation—Sirius and Madame Bones have turned to discussing some recent changes to Auror protocol. They’re both hedging around the fact that Sirius thinks the Auror Corps needs to be readying for war, but Madame Bones can’t move in that direction openly, not while the Ministry is still in denial.

The meeting wraps up after another half-hour’s discussion and debate—less guarded, less coded than some of the conversations Harry has heard in the Slytherin common room, or even conversations he’s heard Sirius have in the past. These two like each other, he thinks. But there’s still a lot going unsaid, some that he understands and some that he doesn’t. He’s confident that he’ll learn.

Sirius and Madame Bones make polite goodbyes—Madame Bones includes Harry in hers, as she had in her greeting, and Harry bows in return. Then they head out to grab a bite of lunch in the Ministry’s cafeteria. Sirius complains cheerfully about the quality of the tea and sandwiches, but with the air of a person who doesn’t mind so much, and Harry laughs at some of the stories he tells about shenanigans conducted in this very cafeteria during his days in Auror training. The Auror Corps has its own lunchroom, but for variety the recruits often came down here to eat, and Sirius tells stories of pranks played and scenes witnessed. It seems to Harry that in his early days working for the DMLE, Sirius had been happy, even if there had been a war on—he’d thrived as a Hit Wizard, and Harry can tell that he misses it.

“Do you think you’ll ever work with the DMLE again?” Harry asks, as they’re coming to the end of their lunch. “Even just as a consultant?”

“Maybe,” Sirius says, and shrugs. “I’m still solidifying my place as Lord Black, and you’re not yet secure in your role as Heir—and, with the war, both of us… well. Anyway, there’s not much guarantee for the line of succession, so I can’t take the risk right now. But in a few years, once we’ve done away with Moldy-Shorts once and for all, maybe.”

Harry smiles. “Okay.”

“What about you, huh?” Sirius asks, leaning forward slightly. He scrunches the paper wrapping of his sandwich into a ball. “Would you want to be an Auror?”

“Oh,” Harry asks. “Erm.”

“Hadn’t thought of it?”

Harry shakes his head bashfully. “I don’t really know what I want to do,” he admits. “I… I’m good in Defence—”

“You certainly are,” Sirius says, with a wink. “I happen to know you have your professor’s highest praises.”

“Thanks,” Harry says, his cheeks warming slightly. “I’m not sure that means I want to be an Auror, though.”

“No pressure,” Sirius says with a wave of his hand. “You’ve years yet before you have to decide—you could pursue politics for a while after you graduate, even, without really needing to settle.”

“ _Ugh_ ,” Harry says, and Sirius, who is well aware of Harry’s opinion of magical politics, laughs.

“Maybe not, then,” he says cheerfully. “Still, it’s an option, and you might warm up to the whole mess once you’re in charge of some of it.”

Harry shrugs. He doesn’t really think so, but who knows—his mind _could_ change, he supposes. And it’s not like he has any other idea of what he wants to do. He has been reading up a bit on warding, in one of the Ancient Runes books he picked up, but he’s not sure what sort of career he could have in that, if any. And he does like Herbology, but he’s not very skilled at it, not like Neville. The same goes for Potions—he likes it well enough when Snape isn’t actively breathing down the back of his neck, but he’s not sure he’s good enough to have any sort of career as a brewer, if those jobs even _exist_. He really still doesn’t know enough about the magical world and all of its possibilities to decide now what he wants to be when he grows up, other than _not dead_.

They chat idly for a while longer, and then Sirius and Harry take their trash over to the bins and head out of the cafeteria, making their way to the elevators. They’re still fairly early for the session, almost an hour, but Sirius wants to watch people arrive and take a tally of who’s there and their responses to seeing Harry.

The walk down to the Wizengamot chamber is as daunting as Harry remembers. The high, dark walls of the hallway, the grand doors that let them into the foyer, even the foyer itself with its shadowed alcoves and looming entryway to the chamber itself. Sirius and Harry deposit their cloaks with the welcome wix, and then settle themselves into one of the alcoves to observe as other members of the Wizengamot filter in.

They’re some of the first to arrive, which is as they’d planned, and Sirius identifies other wixen as they enter, those that Harry doesn’t already know. Allies and enemies come in alone or in groups, often with those like-minded with themselves, but sometimes in unlikely groupings: among other pairings, Lady Greengrass comes through the doorway still mid-argument with Lady MacMillan, which makes Sirius snicker as he identifies them both. The heads of the only two Grey Ancient and Noble Houses, one Dark-leaning, one Light-leaning, they perhaps could have gotten along on the basis of affinity, and have in past generations. Certainly they aren’t as opposed as some among the Ancient and Noble Houses, but, Sirius says, their Ladies hate one another quite fiercely over some slight from their shared youth. Being as both are now well into their 90s, the disagreement becomes more ridiculous every year.

All of the sitting Lords and Ladies of the Ancient and Noble Houses are present today—they usually are. Of them all, only the Ladies Ollivander and Urquart seem to notice Sirius and Harry, the former acknowledging them with a nod, while the latter comes over and greets Sirius politely. Lady Urquart doesn’t do much to acknowledge Harry other than a stringently correct bow, and doesn’t wait to make conversation, instead going off right after exchanging pleasantries with Sirius. She makes a beeline for a wizard that Sirius identifies as Abelard Hooch, Head of the Hooch Family, who has the same distinctive golden eyes as his sister. Harry recognizes at a glance, now, all of the others, though they don’t look his way: Nicodemus Flint, accompanied by his son; Michaela Bulstrode; Theodore Nott Senior—who is not the actual Head of House, as the House of Nott is matriarchal, but who is still insistently in attendance at each session; and Jacob Abbott, the only Light Lord not to acknowledge them. Only eight of the twelve Ancient and Noble seats have sitting Heads, Harry is reminded, watching them filter in. And at any time, an Heir could be lost, and the seat would pass on to a new House, one of those eligible—like the Malfoys.

Harry shakes his head at that thought, and Sirius makes a questioning noise.

“Just…” Harry says, looking out at the small crowd gathered in the foyer now, chatting before the meeting begins. “The balance is really delicate, isn’t it?”

Sirius smiles, a bit wry, a bit tired. “It is,” he says. “The Dark and the Light… we have to keep the balance, of course we do. But it seems harder, more complicated, all the time. No one really knows what’s best.”

“But we all _think_ we do,” Harry says. He sighs and glances up at Sirius. “Should we go up to the box?”

“That sounds good.”

They rise together from their seats in the alcove and head for their box on high, above the heads of all the various Wizengamot members who have already arrived. There will be a few stragglers, of course—Lord Ogden is always precisely on time, as is Madame Bones, and of course Dumbledore and Minister Fudge have yet to take their seats. But the room is mostly full. There are some seats empty, because there always are, but many of the seats that had been left empty this time last year were elected and there have been few retirements this year, leaving the Wizengamot near full complement. All around, heads turn or tilt upward to watch Sirius and Harry pass, and as with last year, a wave of whispering follows them, wixen in their fine robes leaning over to remark to their neighbours on the presence of Lord Black and his Heir. Sirius attends most meetings—he’s more or less a full-time politician these days—but his presence commands attention wherever he goes, and the rarity of Harry’s appearance draws further comment. Everyone knows, just from Harry’s presence, that something is afoot with the House of Black.

They get settled in their box, and then it’s a short wait before the last few Wizengamot Peers arrive and then so too do Dumbledore and Fudge. The opening preamble is formulaic, the introductions and attendance, and then Dumbledore’s listing of the agenda—several matters, including a “matter of information” that Harry knows is himself and Sirius’s item—and call for any further business. No one offers any; clearly they’d all sent their items in early.

There’s a pause, and then Dumbledore clears his throat and says, “First, then, to our matter of information, that this body have all the facts for its later decisions.”

Harry had known, of course, that he’d be first, but he still has to take a deep breath as Sirius rises to his feet.

“The Wizengamot recognizes Lord Black,” Dumbledore says as Sirius places his hand on the House crest carved into the banister; as soon as he finishes speaking, Sirius’s image appears in the centre of the room.

“Thank you, Chief Warlock,” Sirius says. “I spoke last session on a matter of conflict and found myself dissatisfied; I requested that this body acknowledge the lies being spread about my honourable Heir, and was denied. You voted against recognition of my complaint on the reasoning that you had not heard the story from, as it were, the horse’s mouth. I will not deny my frustration; I’m sure it was evident.”

A chuckle passes around the room; Harry can imagine the shouting. He’d seen Sirius after the session, when he’d already had some time to cool down, and that had been bad enough.

“Yes, yes,” Sirius says, and waves a hand. “I know. Still, you all must be aware of how justified my frustration is—the papers have been impugning the honour and integrity of my Heir, and, through him, the House of Black. That cannot stand. So, to satisfy your demands of the story from its source, I present to you my Heir, Harry James Potter, that he might share his information with the Wizengamot.”

Harry rises at his cue and places his hand on the crest over Sirius’s. Dumbledore says, “The Wizengamot recognizes Harry Potter, Heir Black.”

Harry bows once his image appears, and says, “Thank you, Chief Warlock. And greetings to you all, Peers of the Wizengamot. I come before you today to provide my account of the night of April 11th, 1993, Easter. As I have already declared publicly, on that night I witnessed the return of the Dark Lord known as Voldemort—”

Harry has to stop for a moment to allow the chorus of gasps, squeaks, and shrieks to subside. Some members of the Wizengamot manage to restrain themselves, but even most of them have some sort of reaction—faces going white, hands clenching on chairs’ arms.

Once it’s quiet again, Harry repeats, somewhat more loudly, “Voldemort.” This time, he doesn’t pause for the second, quieter round of exclamations. “However, as my Lord mentioned, there has been some disbelief in the claims of myself and Heir Neville Longbottom as to what we witnessed, so I have come before you now to give a first-hand account.”

Harry pauses and waits for Dumbledore to gesture before he goes on. Once everything is dead silent, Dumbledore does so, and Harry continues, as he had rehearsed. “Shortly before midnight on April 11th, myself and Neville Longbottom, the Boy-Who-Lived, were abducted from Hogwarts by Bartemius Crouch Junior, who entered the castle through a disruption in the wards created by a runestone planted by Peter Pettigrew on Halloween, 1992. As you all know, both of these men are convicted Death Eaters; the latter was tried in absentia, as he was on the run, and Crouch Junior was condemned to Azkaban. How he escaped, I cannot say, but I am confident in my identification of the man responsible for the torture of my parents.”

Around the room, many of the Peers flinch at the mention of the fate of the Lord and Lady Potter—it was well known, after all, what happened to them, and hearing it so bluntly from the lips of their son was clearly _disturbing_ to them. _Good_ , Harry thinks viciously. “Both Heir Longbottom and myself were unconscious for a brief period, before awakening in an unknown location. There were several people in the room, including Crouch Junior, Peter Pettigrew—another man I recognize from records of the manhunt for my parents’ torturers—and fraternal twins who referred to one another as Alecto and Amycus. Later, my guardian, Lord Black, identified them from my description as Alecto and Amycus Carrow, also known Death Eaters though never apprehended after the war. As well, there was an unknown pregnant woman in the room, who in hindsight I believe to have been Elyndora Teems, a pureblood kidnapped in the summer of 1992. Lord Black told me about her kidnapping and its suspicious nature in September of 1992, and about his suspicion that she might have been taken for use in a ritual intended to revive the Dark Lord—knowing this, and once I heard her speak with doubled voice and malignant tone, I began to believe that she was possessed by Lord Voldemort.”

There are disbelieving murmurs around the room, but some are watching Harry intently, looking not at his projection but at his physical self on high. Among them, he notes, are all of the Ancient and Noble Lords and Ladies, but also Madame Bones, Lord Ogden, Lord Malfoy, and a woman who looks a great deal like Gemma, who he realizes must be Lady Farley. There are others, probably, too, but he can’t see all of them from his viewpoint in the Black box. “I know it sounds far fetched,” Harry says. “However, the woman was referred to by the Death Eaters as ‘my Lord’, and she commanded them easily. She was also the centre of the ritual that they conducted, once both Neville and myself had been roused as witnesses.

“I believe, to be clear, that my own kidnapping was incidental; Neville, the Boy-Who-Lived and the chosen enemy of the Dark Lord, was the target. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time—but my having been there enables me to present this account to you today.” Harry clears his throat. “I digress. The ritual began. I cannot speak well to its details, as I am unfamiliar with such Dark magic.” He and Sirius had discussed it and decided that Harry shouldn’t mention the Philosopher’s Stone—its theft hadn’t been publicized, and to bring it up would discredit Dumbledore, which isn’t the goal of this. “However, the pregnant woman was consumed in flame. While the ritual was ongoing, Heir Longbottom got free thanks to some skill in wandless magic. This skill is one he and I have been working on together as an extracurricular in the past year; I’d been unaware that he had achieved such success, but he escaped a full body-bind and fled to the fireplace. The Death Eaters had negligently left Floo powder within easy reach, and Neville—I mean, Heir Longbottom—Flooed out to the hospital. I was left behind.”

Harry pauses and swallows. This is the part that’s always the hardest to tell. He can’t quite do it, even with all his practice, without remembering the desolation he’d felt in those moments after Neville had left, before he’d forced himself into action. He’d been sure that he would die. But desperation had driven him to succeed, to live. And now he’s here. Here, surrounded by disbelieving eyes and hostile ones, people who are afraid and bitter and angry and disturbed, who want to see him silenced. Well, he’s not going to let them.

He takes a deep breath, and sets about finishing it. “I had only a few moments to think up a strategy. The ritual finished. All of the Death Eaters were disabled by it, knocked out, which… which left me alone with Voldemort. He… retrieved a wand, his own I suppose, and used first Legilimency and then the Cruciatus curse against me. I… it… it hurt.” Harry clears his throat. “But I managed to convince him, somehow, that he should let me live. He… saw something in me. I can’t speak to his mind, only my own. He told me to go, to tell Dumbledore of his return, that he was coming, and I went—of course I left, and was relieved not to get a Killing Curse to the back.”

Harry takes one final deep breath. “The rest, you all know. I emerged in the lobby of Saint Mungo’s Hospital, where Neville had come through not much earlier, and declared to everyone who would listen that Voldemort had returned. That seemed sensible to me: he is, after all, coming. And he will kill us all if we are not prepared.”

There’s a pause, where everyone seems to wait to ensure Harry is finished, and he bows again. Then, at once, there’s the sound of several hands slapping onto House emblems, and Dumbledore blinks and looks around, then says, “The Wizengamot recognizes Lady Greengrass.”

Lady Greengrass thanks the Chief Warlock once her image appears, and then turns her sharp attention on Harry. “Heir Black,” she says. “You expect us to believe that a twelve-year-old boy escaped the clutches of the Dark Lord _entirely by himself_?”

“I do,” Harry says plainly, which causes another murmur to go around the room. “As I said: I can’t know Voldemort’s mind, but I have spoken the truth. He let me go.”

“All accounts of his behaviour in the last war suggest that he was _much_ more likely simply to kill you.”

“I know,” Harry says. “I agree. I don’t understand either, Lady Greengrass—I’m simply grateful for my life.”

“Hmph,” she says, but subsides. Madame Bones appears in her place as she’s recognized.

“Heir Black,” she says cordially. “I would like to verify several details with you.” At Harry’s nod, she says, “You named four known Death Eaters. Peter Pettigrew is at large and narrowly escaped capture at Hogwarts last fall; this is known to the DMLE. As is the fact that Amycus and Alecto Carrow were never apprehended. However, Bartemius Crouch Junior _was_ condemned to Azkaban and was transported there under the authority of my predecessor, Bartemius Crouch Senior, and as far as we know died there.”

“I know,” Harry repeats. “I can’t explain it, Madame Bones. I can only tell you what I saw, and I _know_ who it was—I’ve seen his photo many times.”

She nods, accepting that. “And the other woman? I will admit, I am less than pleased to hear that Lord Black is giving children information about ongoing DMLE investigations.”

“He knew I’d keep mum,” Harry says. “He’s done his best to keep me up to date with efforts to hunt down active Death Eaters. He knows I have a… personal interest, both because of my parents and because of my friendship with Heir Longbottom—and my friendships and rivalries within Slytherin House at Hogwarts. Inevitably, some of the school’s social politics are tangled up with the politics of the last war, and he wanted me to have information that might be important. Not only to protect myself, but also so that I might… listen out for any hints as to current Death Eater activity.”

From somewhere among the Peers, a man shouts, “You insolent brat!” His voice is loud enough that Harry can hear him clearly even without the amplification magic.

Dumbledore says, “Lord Nott, order. You will have your turn to speak.”

There’s no further outburst, and Harry looks over toward the Nott box to see that though Theo’s dad is red-faced and furious, he’s subsided slightly.

Madame Bones clears her throat loudly. “I see, Heir Potter. Well. I shall certainly investigate that avenue myself—Mrs. Teems was never found.”

“Her body was destroyed,” Harry says quietly. “I’m not sure there’ll be anything _to_ find. But I wish you luck, Madame Bones—for her family’s sake.”

Madame Bones inclines her head, and then her image vanishes. With a sigh hiding in his voice, Dumbledore says, “The Wizengamot recognizes Lord Nott.”

Theodore Nott Senior’s enraged visage appears in the middle of the room, very much in the personal space of Harry’s image; Harry is glad that it’s only a simulation. “You have been _spying_ on our children!” he shouts, not waiting to make a polite acknowledgement of Dumbledore or of Harry. “And in doing so you impugn the honour of all of our Houses and Families! You imply that we are _criminals!”_

“Not at all,” Harry says, as mildly as he can. “I have never heard from any of my classmates anything that confirmed that their parents might be Death Eaters or loyal to Lord Voldemort, Lord Nott.” That’s a lie, but it’s not like anyone needs to know that. Harry knows, because he’d read up very carefully, that there is no _requirement_ of truth-telling in the Wizengamot, no magic to enforce it. Indeed, such magics are completely disabled within the chamber itself, considered an infraction against the free will and rights of the Peers. Harry thinks that’s stupid—why give them the ability to lie to one another? But that’s politics. “Lord Black was only concerned for me. While of course none of my classmates are Death Eaters, and I heard nothing about their parents, some _do_ have relations who were known to be active among the Dark Lord’s forces during the last war. He only wanted me as protected as possible.”

Lord Nott sneers, but he says nothing more, his image vanishing from the circle. He’s replaced by Lady Farley, somewhat to Harry’s surprise. She sketches a curtsey to Dumbledore, and then to Harry, and thanks the Chief Warlock as is proper once she’s recognized.

“Heir Black,” she says, “I am aware that you are an ally of my daughter. She has urged me to disbelieve the papers in your favour, insisting that you are honest. Tell me: what do you hold over her, that she defends you so fiercely?”

Harry’s eyebrows shoot up, and he blinks at Lady Farley. “Ma’am,” he says as politely as he can, “I hold nothing over Heir Farley. We’re friends.”

She purses her lips, makes a dissatisfied noise, and vanishes. Strange, Harry thinks, and then he watches as the image of another Peer materializes—and on it goes. Peer after Peer rises to question him, demanding details of his account or questioning his motivations, his abilities, his _sanity_. Harry does his best. Many of the questions are ones Sirius and Remus had predicted and prepared him for, and he knows most of his answers are calm and confident. There are a few moments when he stumbles, tripping in the rising tide of memory, but he manages. Beside him physically, Sirius is still and stalwart, supporting him, though he doesn’t speak. It goes on for what feels like forever, until Harry is rehashing things he’s already said, repeating himself as carefully as he can—it helps, of course, that he’s telling the truth (mostly), so there’s little effort required to keep his story straight; his Occlumency, too, helps him in keeping the memories sharp and organized, not muddled by emotion or repeated recollection.

Then, finally, Dumbledore says, “We have come to the end of the Speakers List. Are there any final comments?”

A pause, and Harry begins to hope it’s over—and then he sees movement directly across the room from the Black box, and Lucius Malfoy rises to his feet, his hand settling on his House crest. _Right,_ Harry thinks tiredly.

“The Wizengamot recognizes Lord Malfoy,” Dumbledore says, and Malfoy’s image appears, the last drop in a flood—the last straw, Harry fears, that might yet break his story.

“Thank you, Chief Warlock,” Malfoy says smoothly. “Heir Black, thank you for sharing your… _interesting_ story. However, I must ask: do you have any _proof_?”

This, Harry had been expecting. He’s surprised no one had raised it sooner. “Only my own word,” Harry says. “But that word is honest, Lord Malfoy. I would never dare embarrass my House or disturb the magical world in such a way for a lark—I might still be young, but I’m not a fool.”

“Hm,” Malfoy says, and with that single doubtful hum casts a shadow on Harry’s character and his integrity. Harry grits his teeth and waits for the next volley. “The difficulty, of course, is that none of the details you have provided are verifiable. Peter Pettigrew and the Carrows have been at large for a decade. Crouch Junior died in Azkaban. And by your own admission, the body of this woman is unrecoverable. I acknowledge that you and Heir Longbottom _did_ suffer some sort of kidnapping and assault, as you are on record as having been treated for Cruciatus damage at Saint Mungo’s, but… I fear I must doubt that it was by the Dark Lord, and that he has returned—after all, he fell quite decisively when you were a baby, and there are no images of him. Your kidnapper could easily have _claimed_ to be Voldemort, and the others disguised or your mind confused.”

Harry scowls. “I am confident in my account, Lord Malfoy.”

“ _You_ are, yes,” Malfoy says. “Unfortunately, I simply cannot be. I will not insult you by calling you a liar, Mr. Potter—that is, Heir Black. But I also cannot believe you fully.” He turns then toward the Minister, seated next to Dumbledore, and to the Wizengamot at large. “Peers, Minister, it is a troubling account of the activities of Dark and dangerous wizards that we have heard today, to be sure. But I fear that mobilizing the Ministry and informing the public at this stage would be hasty. We have no proof of the Heir’s claims, and if he _does_ turn out to have been in any way mistaken, we will have caused a panic for nothing.”

“Lord Malfoy,” Harry says, his voice firm. “You are speaking to _me._ I was under the impression that until my account is declared closed, I have the floor, and you may only question me, not interject your own opinions.”

Malfoy turns slowly to fix Harry—the real Harry—with a cold glare from across the room. “I concede the point of order,” he says stiffly. “My… apologies, Heir Black.”

Harry smiles. “If you have no further questions, Lord Malfoy, I would like to wrap this up.”

“I believe I have said my piece,” Malfoy says, and his image vanishes.

“Well then,” Dumbledore says, sounding entertained. “In that case. Heir Black, you may at your pleasure declare your account closed. You may also speak to what you wish to see come of your information, that it may spur the Wizengamot to action or inaction, and then I shall open the floor once more.”

Harry nods, bows to Dumbledore, and says, “Thank you, Chief Warlock. Having spoken true to the best of my ability, I hereby close my account. I would now urge the Wizengamot to action: cease the libel of me and Heir Longbottom in the Daily Prophet and declare the return of the Dark Lord Voldemort; begin preparing the magical world for a rejoining of war; brace yourselves, one and all, for what comes—whether you believe me or not, Dark things are stirring in the corners of this world, and they will not sleep much longer. Change _is_ coming. The waters are rising. Learn to swim, or be drowned.”

Then he bows once more, deeper, and cedes the floor. His image vanishes, leaving a hollow space at the centre of the Wizengamot and the silent echo of his words.

There is a long and profound silence.

Then there’s a soft sound, and Dumbledore glances up and says, “The Wizengamot recognizes Lady Urquart.”

“Thank you, Chief Warlock,” Lady Urquart says. “It seems clear to me what our first order of business must be: the immediate ceasing of all slander of Heir Black and Heir Longbottom in the papers. Whether or not Heir Black is telling the truth, that the Daily Prophet has been allowed to go on for this long calling two Heirs to Ancient and Noble Houses liars and mentally unstable is an insult to us all, and I will not see it go on any longer; this body has no excuse to delay delivering such a cease and desist to the papers.”

There’s a round of nods around the room, and Lady Urquart says, “Thus I so motion: that the Wizengamot hereby issue a notice to the Daily Prophet to cease in printing any negative articles about Harry Potter, Heir Black and Neville Longbottom, Heir Longbottom, on the topic of their claims that the Dark Lord Voldemort has returned.”

“So motioned,” Dumbledore says. “Discussion?” None raise their wands. “All in favour?”

Not every wand in the room goes up, not by any means. But almost all of the Ancient and Noble Peers vote in favour, excluding Lord Flint, and a small majority of the rest do as well; the motion passes.

Lady Urquart nods, satisfied. “Thank you, Peers. Next, then, we must decide if we are to act on Heir Black’s information.”

A wand goes up, and Dumbledore glances at Lady Urquart; she bows her head and cedes the floor to Lord Ogden, who Dumbledore recognizes once the image of the round-faced Lord has appeared.

In his warm voice, Lord Ogden says, “Much as I hate to admit it, Lord Malfoy has a point about _proof_ , lad.”

Harry, up in the box, grits his teeth. Sirius clearly notices, because he pats Harry’s shoulder.

Down on the floor, Lord Ogden isn’t done. “I’m all in favour of being prepared—I believe that each of us should certainly warn our allies, prepare ourselves. You’re right, Heir Black, about Dark things stirring; someone’s certainly looking to make some trouble. But we can’t go about panicking the whole populace by declaring to all and sundry that You-Know-Who has returned.”

Another requested recognition, the floor easily ceded by Lord Ogden and Malfoy returns. “Not to mention that such a rapid reversal would make the Ministry look weak,” he says. “If what you want is for the… established magical world to be prepared for assault, we cannot go about undermining our institutions in such a way now.”

Harry trades a glance with Sirius, questioning, and Sirius nods and rises himself to place a hand on their House emblem; his image appears, but Malfoy doesn’t cede the floor entirely, clearly expecting a rebuttal—which is what he gets.

“That isn’t what my Heir was suggesting,” Sirius says. “You’re correct, much as I dislike admitting it; we can’t change course so rapidly. But people are going to need to _know_ to be prepared, and while this body and the direct allies of those present represent the vast majority of purebloods and a significant percentage of halfbloods, the Wizengamot continues to fail to represent muggleborn wixen, or those otherwise relatively new to the magical world, including immigrants to Britain. Not to mention Squibs and the muggle relations of the aforementioned—and it is these latter groups who will be the targets of Voldemort and his Death Eaters. I’m sure you remember, Malfoy; you were one of those doing the targeting, weren’t you?” Sirius pauses just long enough for Malfoy’s face to darken, but not long enough for him to reply. “Under Imperius, of course.”

“Indeed,” Malfoy grits out. “However, it is those very people that I fear would panic and disrupt the function of our world. Those with less familiarity with the competent protection of the DMLE will be much more likely to act irrationally, perhaps even attempting to flee to the ‘shelter’—“ it’s clear from the way he says it that he thinks it would be anything but— “of muggle authorities. That would be a disaster, Lord Black, even you must see that.”

“And fighting a war that the populace doesn’t know is happening until people are dying in the streets would be as much of one, or worse,” Sirius says. “I am confident in my Heir’s account. Voldemort _has_ returned, and he _will_ come, and he’ll bring as much fire and blood as he did last time. We _all_ recall what those days were like. The death, and the fear, and half of that was because it took far too long for anyone to really _know_ anything, to know where to go or what to do. That’s information that we could put out to the public _now_ , before it gets as bad as it was before. People would be much more able to protect themselves.”

“I am not convinced that the threat is as dire as you say,” Malfoy says. “And if it is not, it will undermine the reputation of the Ministry and the Wizengamot all the more, that we stirred up such fear over nothing. We should be more cautious about telling the populace anything—we should gather _proof_. That is all I ask.”

With that, his image vanishes. He sounds very reasonable, Harry thinks, if you ignore the fact that he’s basically advocating that they do _nothing_. Next to him, Sirius sighs, quietly and with little enough intention that it’s not broadcasted by the charms, and his image vanishes too.

“The Wizengamot recognizes Madame Bones,” Dumbledore says, and then her image, shoulders set straight and strong, appears in Sirius’s place.

“Thank you, Chief Warlock,” she says, and then, “I cannot speak for the entire Wizengamot, but I will make this pledge: I will undertake to find whatever proof may exist of Heir Black’s claims. If he _is_ entirely truthful, then he is also entirely correct that we must take swift and decisive action to protect our world from the renewed threat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. I advocate that each of us act privately to begin safeguarding our own Families and Houses, and the allies thereof, and anyone else within the reach of our individual and collective protections. It is clear to me that this body will not agree to make a public declaration at this time; so be it. However, if proof _is_ uncovered, we must agree to make a declaration immediately, without delay.”

She pauses for a moment, and then says, “Thus I so motion: that in the event of proof of the return of the Dark Lord Voldemort, the Wizengamot shall immediately release news of said return to the public and begin making all efforts to prepare the populace for war.”

“So motioned,” Dumbledore says. “Discussion?”

A wand goes up, and the image of Lord Flint appears. Dumbledore recognizes him, he bows his head, and then he speaks. “I would request that the motion be amended, Madame Bones: that in the event of the aforementioned, the Wizengamot shall immediately release news of said event—and end there. I feel that such a vague promise of ‘making all efforts’ would be fruitless and lead either to lacklustre effort or to… overzealousness.”

Madame Bones looks displeased, but she nods.

Dumbledore calls, “All in favour of the amendment?”

Wands go up easily all around the circle; Madame Bones might have been able to argue, but probably not to great effect, Harry thinks. Damn.

No further Peers seem inclined to discussion, and so Dumbledore calls for a vote on the amended motion. It passes—by less of a margin than Harry had hoped for, but perhaps by more than, by now, he’s expecting.

There’s a little more waffling after that, various Wizengamot members tossing in their two cents—two Knuts?—but Harry tunes most of it out. No further votes are called for; the Wizengamot is resolved. They’ll do nothing. Well, some of them will do _something_ , Harry thinks, and at least the Prophet will stop calling him and Neville liars. But the world isn’t going to be ready when Voldemort comes, and Voldemort _is_ coming. That, Harry knows with a certainty that is wrapped like thorny vines around his heart, strangling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: I heard you liked politics, so I put some politics in your politics.  
> Harry: Thanks, I hate it.


	4. The First Labour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUESS WHO ALMOST FORGOT TO POST TODAY.
> 
> In recompense for being late (in my timezone, anyway, woops), here's a WHOPPER. Enjoy!
> 
> (Also, there's a further note at the end--read on, please!)

August wears on, the last few weeks before school now upon them, and Harry doubles down on his reading and preparation. The rest of the magical world has decided to be stubborn and keeps its collective head buried in the ground. Fine. _He’ll_ be ready, even if no one else is. The papers aren’t saying anything about Voldemort any more, which at least means Harry is no longer being slandered, but it also means no one _knows_ , and most of them probably still think he and Neville are liars, because no further articles about them doesn’t exactly mean they’ve printed a retraction. Sirius growls about it a lot, but there’s not much he can do.

Harry has already got his school books, at least; he’d insisted on going as early as possible to get them. He’s going to be busy, he knows; he doesn’t want to waste any time, or risk falling behind. Besides, it’s not like it isn’t _interesting_. Arithmancy is actually fascinating, he learns—though he doesn’t have nearly as much a head for it as he does for Ancient Runes. With runes, the interactions are just… intuitive for him—they make sense intrinsically, he doesn’t have to struggle to memorize them like he does the different meanings assigned to numbers, and runic sentences just click together in his mind, whereas he has to sit and work out each arithmantic equation bit by bit. But he likes it, the same way he remembers liking maths in primary school—especially now that he doesn’t have to dumb himself down to keep behind Dudley in class.

He also spends a lot of time practicing duelling with Sirius and Remus. Partly it’s because there was no assigned Defence Against the Dark Arts text, and he wants to be ready, but also he just wants to be _ready_. His reflexes are good, and his spellwork is powerful, but both of them scold him on his reliance on certain spells ( _Expelliarmus_ becomes a quick favourite) and the sloppiness of his wandwork. He’s never been very good in Charms or even in Transfiguration for the same reason; he’s just not good at the regimented motions and memorization of arbitrary incantations. It’s not as intuitive as certain defensive spells, or flying, or runes.

Halfway through one of these lectures on trying to expand his repertoire, Sirius stops and slaps his forehead with a groan.

“What?” says Harry.

“I’m a bloody idiot,” Sirius says loudly.

“Not arguing,” Remus says, from where he’s sitting on the grass, watching. They’ve come out to the same bit of magical park space that Harry had first visited on his birthday last year, where he often comes to fly—there’s a fenced off grassy area for those practicing friendly duels, shielded from the rest of the park. It’s not very often in use, and the weather’s been so nice that they come here often to practice.

“It’s your Inclination,” Sirius says to Harry. “I hadn’t even thought of it, but you’re quite powerful—it makes sense your Inclination would show this strongly.”

“My Inclination?” Harry asks, frowning. Blaise and Theo had explained a bit about magical Inclination in his first year, but he’d never asked further about it. They’d said it wasn’t really that important—basically everyone was capable of all common magic, at least the sort taught at Hogwarts.

“Yes,” Sirius says. “I, well, it _does_ make sense. The Black family magic accepted you so easily—Harry, you’re Dark, of course you are.”

Harry’s frown deepens. “What does that mean?”

“Well, aside from meaning you’re all the more well-suited as Black Heir, it’ll effect the… the way you _access_ magic, I suppose. Dark magic is, fundamentally, any magic that comes from its own wellspring, for which you are only a channel; Light magic is… invented, I suppose, created by the act of speaking and wand motion rather than directed by it; and Grey magic is magic that comes solely from the self, fuelled by the wix’s own personal power and shaped by it at the same time. The weakest versions of all of these are accessible by all wixen, but your Inclination still effects what you’re good at, to some degree. The more powerful the wix, the more Inclination tends to show.”

“Oh,” Harry says, processing that. “So… what makes you think I’m Dark?”

“You’re such an intuitive user of magic,” Sirius explains. “And you’re drawn to magics that lean Dark—certain defensive spells, and Ancient Runes. You don’t like memorizing lists of runes, but you’re good with the connections and their meanings; I suspect you’ll find something similar in Care of—oh, bloody hell, of _course_ you’re Dark, you’re a Parselmouth!” Sirius slaps his forehead again, probably just for effect; he’s already got a red mark in the middle of his face. “It’s a Dark gift. It didn’t even occur to me that your Inclination would be having this effect, though, especially not when you’re still so young.”

“Okay.” Harry frowns down at his hands, one still clutching his wand. “So… Dark arts are going to come easily to me?”

“More or less,” Sirius says. Remus, by then, has gotten up and walked over. “Certain magics are, as a school, more Dark or more Light, though the spells within aren’t all really so strong as to be classified strictly.”

“Oh,” Harry says again, feeling rather like a broken record, thinks about that for a moment, and says, “So, Charms are mostly Light spells, right? Because all of the wand movements and incantations are really specific to each spell, and if you get it wrong, it doesn’t work. But… a Disarming Charm—well, a lot of defensive spells, at least that you’ve taught me—can be done even if the wand motion’s a bit sloppy, you just have to _try_ really hard. They’re _easier_ if the motion’s right, though.”

“Exactly,” Sirius says, nodding proudly. “ _Expelliarmus, Protego_ , and a bunch of other defensive hexes, jinxes, and curses are really about instinct, about magic that’s already been shaped—you just have to access it. And your ability to access it, Harry, is very strong.”

“For you,” Remus cuts in, “the difficulty is going to be in keeping that access controlled. Most spells will simply fizzle if you lose your grasp on the magic; _Expelliarmus_ is like that. If you can’t grasp it, if your hand is too loose _or_ too tight, it just doesn’t work. But other Dark or Dark-leaning spells will consume you if you lose control.”

Harry thinks back to the way the family magic had felt last summer, when Sirius had adopted him into the family. He hasn’t tried to use it since, but he can see how something like that could take control of him, rather than him having control of it. He’d felt wide open to something much larger than himself, a door only barely on its hinges; he’d managed to shut that door then, but if he opens it again, he’s not sure what will happen—he’s not sure if he’s strong enough to stand against the flood. So he nods, because he thinks he does understand what Sirius and Remus are saying. “I’ll be careful,” he promises. “So, what else is Dark? Or Light, or Grey?”

Remus takes over, launching into a small lecture that turns to a discussion, all three of them sitting on the grass and talking about magic, what it is, where it comes from, what it can do. Harry is full of questions, and Sirius and Remus both full of answers—sometimes even _different_ answers. Sirius subscribes to the school of thought that says that wixen are gifted with magic by magic itself, a pseudo- or even truly sentient entity, or maybe deity, made up of all of the higher energy of the world. Remus, on the other hand, thinks that while such a pool of magic may exist, it’s more that wixen end up with the ability to manipulate magic at differing levels of strength more or less by genetic lottery—otherwise, he says, why would Squibs be born? Why muggleborns? Why a strong child in a family of weaker wixen, or a weak one to strong parents? And besides, if it _is_ a gift from some sentience, what does that say about magic’s criteria of choice?

Sirius and Remus argue lightly about that for a while, and Harry listens, fascinated. Some of their disagreement comes down to difference in upbringing—Sirius is from an old, an _Ancient_ pureblood family, while Remus is a halfblood born to a muggle and a pureblood, raised with understanding of muggles and their ways, similar to Harry himself. Neither of them had ever lived in the muggle world full-time, but Remus had some muggle science in his childhood education and works in the muggle world now, whereas Sirius was raised not precisely religious, but with magical spirituality, superstition, and ritual. Harry’s own childhood again had been very different from theirs, and he’s not sure who he believes; he resolves to ask around once he’s back at Hogwarts and see what others think. He’s especially curious as to Hermione’s opinion, and decides that perhaps he should write her, though of course he’ll get about six pages back of speculation and footnoted research, knowing her.

There are a lot of things Harry wants to ask Hermione, and he gets as many of them out in his letters to her as he can, because he knows that once school starts things are going to have to be different. He’s heard in a very strange letter from Marcus Flint (the subtext of which, he suspects, had been _what the bloody hell are you doing, Potter?_ ) that Flint has been held back a year, having thoroughly failed his NEWTs—probably on purpose, for some reason, or so Harry thinks, because Flint had never struck him as an idiot. But his being there, and Theo, and Draco Malfoy, all of them, it all means that Harry is going to have to be very careful about who he associates with, and _how_ he associates with them. He’s not exactly a Death Eater, but he’s trying to keep Voldemort thinking he’s an asset and not a threat, and that means he’s probably not going to be able to spend much time with the Gryffindors this year. That burns like acid going down, and he turns it over again and again in his mind as the final weeks wear on, lying awake late at night, staring at his dark ceiling and trying to find some lie he could tell that would justify keeping his friends. But the only one Voldemort cares about is Neville, and even that relationship is going to have to change.

The truth is, Harry doesn’t want to _have_ information for Voldemort, because if he has it at all he’s going to have to give at least some of it up in order to keep himself alive. The best way, then, to keep from telling anything is to keep from knowing anything, and the best way to avoid knowing anything is to not _be_ there. He remembers first year, when the Gryffindor Trio hadn’t quite trusted him yet, hadn’t told him about the Philosopher’s Stone, and he thinks that perhaps that’s how things will have to be—the three of them plotting, and him on the fringes, knowing something is going on but not quite what it is. It’s infuriating; he’d worked for that trust, for his reputation in the school as someone not able to be swayed or influenced by anyone other than himself, someone who doesn’t care about House divisions and stupidity in social politics, and now he’s got to go back on all of it and bend over backward for Voldemort if he doesn’t want to die—and he _doesn’t_. He doesn’t want anyone to die, which was the whole point of all of this.

It’s worth it, he reminds himself over and over again. It’s worth the duelling practice and the long hours spent reading under his covers, the practice meditating to get just a little further with his Animagus transformation, the Occlumency and the lies and the fact that he’s going to lose all his friends. He already feels like he’s losing himself. But how much worse, really, could it get? And the current state of affairs is worth seeing everyone he loves live through this war.

So he studies and he prepares and he doesn’t tell Sirius and Remus anything, other than that he’s frightened, to which they give soft sighs and warm hugs and tell him, yes, of course he is, and it’s okay. It’ll be okay. They’ll protect him.

(They can’t.)

And then comes the end of August, and Harry scurries around the Doghouse getting all of his things together for school. It’s the night of the 31st, and still early for bed, but it’s also the night of the full moon, and so Sirius and Remus are saying goodnight early before they head off to a park or something to have a frolic and keep Moony busy until the sun returns; the moon is still an hour from its rise. Harry packs his truck, with Sirius or Remus occasionally summoning misplaced items from other rooms, and Harry tucks things away carefully, one-by-one. At the very bottom of his trunk, he packs his most precious items: his dad’s necklace and his mum’s perfume, wrapped in the Invisibility Cloak and secret, a secret heart to him that no one else gets to see. Sirius shrinks his broom for him—“Get Madame Hooch to resize it,” he advises—and Harry makes sure that his rowan Potter wand is in his leg holster, which he sets aside to strap on in the morning.

And then everything’s more or less ready, and Sirius stoops to kiss Harry’s forehead. Harry is sitting cross-legged on his bed, and he cranes up a little to receive the kiss.

“Love you, pup,” Sirius says.

Sirius has said those words a thousand times by now, but they never fail to make Harry’s heart feel full of warmth. “Love you too,” he replies, and looks over to where Remus is lingering in the doorway. “You too, Remus.”

“I love you as well, Harry,” Remus murmurs, and then, “Sirius.”

“Alright,” Sirius sighs, gives Harry one more hug, and says, “I’ll check in on you when we’re back—don’t stay up too late.”

“I won’t,” Harry promises, and Sirius steps back. He pauses to kiss Remus’s cheek in the doorway, and Remus smiles at him, but waves him onward.

“I’ll be there in a moment,” Remus murmurs, and Sirius glances between him and Harry, then nods and slips away.

Remus turns his gold-amber gaze on Harry, his eyes glinting strangely in the dim light of Harry’s lamp, and then he prowls across the room. There’s something lupine in his walk—in his every move, no matter what he does—this close to the moon. Harry sort of likes it, even though it should seem dangerous. But to Harry, it’s just Remus. It’s _Moony_. He knows Moony would probably destroy just about anything that tried to hurt Harry. He’s even growled at Sirius in the days leading up to the moon; he’s banned from duelling practice any time within three days of the full moon, because he gets too snarly about anyone casting spells at his pup, even his lover. Sirius had laughed about it; Harry knows Remus is a bit embarrassed, but… being so treasured, it’s nice.

Remus comes right up to the side of Harry’s bed and crouches so that they’re level, and he touches Harry’s face and the side of his neck, and then leans in to rest his forehead against Harry’s briefly. “I’m going to miss you when you’re away,” he says softly. “Be careful, alright?”

“I will,” Harry promises. _I’ll try, anyway_ , he thinks.

“I’m sure you’ll try,” Remus replies, because he’s really too perceptive this close to the moon—or maybe he just knows Harry. “I’ll probably be too tired to see you off in the morning, but I need you to know that I love you. War is scary, and hard, and it draws lines of division between people, even those who love each other. I do not want you to be divided from me, Harry; you are my pack, as much as James and Lily are, as Sirius is, and…” He trails off, seeming a bit frustrated. He doesn’t have the words, maybe, for what he feels.

Remus has talked about this a little with Harry, when Harry had asked careful questions about his lycanthropy. The wolf feels things differently from the man, and this close to the moon, there’s some bleed-over. Remus hasn’t got all of his usual eloquence, and there perhaps aren’t human words for what he’s feeling anyway.

So Harry just hums and reaches up to grab Remus’s shoulder and hold on hard for a moment. He wants to stay, too.

Remus smiles. “I love you. So much. So does Sirius.”

“I love you too, Remus. Now go on, before you get any more wolfy—I don’t want to be cleaning fur out of my blankets all night,” Harry says, trying to lighten the mood.

Fortunately, he succeeds; Remus snorts, rises, and goes, leaving Harry alone with a single last lingering look over his shoulder. Sirius calls a goodbye from the front room, Harry calls back with his own goodbye, and then with a click the front door opens, shuts, and they’re gone.

Harry sighs and settles into his blankets. Tomorrow he goes back to Hogwarts. Tonight he gets to enjoy the quiet, one last time.

He ends up going to sleep early and rising early, even before Sirius comes to get him up, though he doesn’t get out of bed until Sirius sticks his head through Harry’s door and tells him breakfast is ready. They eat quietly together, careful not to disturb Remus’s post-moon slumber, and head for King’s Cross. It’s busy when they arrive, of course. Half the magical world seems to be crowded onto Platform Nine and Three Quarters, and Harry and Sirius end up saying a somewhat rushed goodbye in order to get clear of the madness. Sirius kisses Harry’s forehead, hugs him hard, and tells him to be careful. Harry promises he will, and then he turns away to get to the train. When he looks back again, Sirius is gone in the mess of people, vanished, and Harry is alone in the crowd, with nowhere to go but forward. Not even Hedwig is with him; he has her cage, but he sent her to fly on ahead. Maybe, he decides, he’ll go visit her tonight in the Owlery. It’ll be nice to spend time with someone who has no expectations of him.

He clambers aboard the train, his trunk already charmed for lightness by Sirius, and looks around. It’s early enough that there are still a few empty compartments, and after a moment’s hesitation he ducks into one, deciding that whichever of his friends arrives first will be fine to sit with, even the Gryffindors. After today, he’ll figure out how to distance himself from them, but one more afternoon can’t hurt.

But the Gryffindors don’t arrive. Instead, a soft tapping at the door and then the rattle of it opening heralds the appearance of Luna Lovegood, dressed in orange robes and wearing her bottle-cork necklace. She has radishes hanging from her ears, only just visible through her loose tumble of wavy blonde hair, which he remembers from the one time he’d actually properly met her over Christmas last year. That feels like a small age ago; he smiles tentatively at her and privately wonders why she’s not sitting with her friends. Then he remembers her missing shoes, and then his own primary school days with Dudley, and thinks, _Right_.

“Hello, Lovegood,” he says, as she comes in. He gets up and helps her with her trunk, sliding it into the overhead rack.

“Hello Harry,” she replies in her soft, sweet voice. “You should call me Luna.”

“Alright,” he says. “How was your summer?”

“Oh, good,” she says. “Daddy and I went looking for fairy eleuthids—they’re quite rare.”

“Oh,” Harry says. He has no idea what a fairy eleuthid is, and isn’t sure if he should ask. “Well, that’s… nice.”

“It was,” she says, sounding pleased. “And how was _your_ summer, Harry? You seem better than you did at the end of term, but also quite tired. Did you get enough sleep last night?”

“Er, I suppose.” Something about her calm and insightful inquisition sets Harry on his back foot; he remembers this, a bit, from their encounter at Christmas and the few times he’d seen her in passing since. “I did get a lot of rest this summer.” In between the worrying, anyway.

“That’s good,” Luna says. She smiles at Harry, then says, “Did you do anything else?”

“Mostly just read,” Harry says, and he reaches down for his satchel to pull out the book on Greek runes he’s bought, because she’s a Ravenclaw and he figures she might be interested. “Stuff like this. And lots of Defence.”

“Because of You-Know-Who,” Luna says calmly, accepting the book. Harry startles a little, and she pats his hand. “Don’t worry, Harry. I believed you from the start. I don’t think you’d lie about something like that.”

“Thanks,” Harry says. _Something like that,_ she said. But she believes he’d lie about other things? Really, she’s far too perceptive. But there’s not much he can do about that. He goes to say something else, but she’s got the book open in her lap and looks engrossed already, and he gives a wry smile and digs out another book for himself.

Eventually, the train shifts beneath them and begins to move, and Harry glances up. None of his other friends have arrived, a little strangely, but he decides to accept the gift of peace and Luna’s strange company. They can just read and be quiet, and he won’t have to put on a face of any sort; she doesn’t really seem to expect anything from him. And hadn’t he been thinking just a little earlier how nice Hedwig’s company could be for just the same reason? So he takes it at face value, lets himself get absorbed in his book, and waits to see if anyone else will come by.

In the end, a few do. Millicent wanders past and pauses to stick her head in and greet Harry, and invite him down to the compartment she’s sharing with Blaise, Theo, Greengrass, and Greengrass’s younger sister Astoria, who’s a first year this year. Harry politely declines, nodding to Luna and saying that he’s got a companion already, which Millicent accepts with an amused smirk. Gemma also comes by, and she and Harry exchange pleasantries briefly before she says that they’ll need to talk more later, with a glance at Luna that tells Harry she wants privacy. He suspects he’ll have a lot of people pulling him aside for one reason or another in the first week of term: Gemma, Theo, Neville, and Hermione are all certain to want to talk, and perhaps also Blaise, the Weasley twins, Marcus Flint… the list goes on. Harry’s still bracing himself.

He doesn’t see Neville, Hermione, or Ron on the train. Probably, he decides, they’re wrapped up in their own business—for all Neville’s retiring nature, he’s still the Boy-Who-Lived, and people want his attention. They also have their own full complement of Housemates to keep busy with; Harry tries not to feel their absence, reminds himself that this is how it’s going to be until his deception of Voldemort has ended, and buries his attention in his book until the time comes to change into robes and clamber off the train.

Harry and Luna drift together up the path toward the carriages that will take them—both of them, now that Luna’s in her second year—up to the castle. They come around a small bend in the road, and Harry stops dead, staring at the line of carriages; behind him, another student protests and then shoves past him. But he stays still, his eyes fixed on the strange creatures hitched to the fronts of the black carriages: skeletal horselike creatures, with ash-grey skin stretched thin over bone, their black eyes gleaming in the low light of the lamps that illuminate the street.

“You can see them now?” Luna says, stepping close enough that her shoulder brushes Harry’s arm. “It’s okay, Harry. They’re nice.”

Nice isn’t the word Harry’d use, but he suspects she means they won’t harm anyone. “I… why didn’t I see them before?”

“Only someone who’s seen death can see them,” she says. “Did you see them in June?”

Harry shakes his head—but then, he thinks, he’d still been in a haze in June. Maybe he would have noticed them… or maybe not. Maybe he hadn’t really _thought_ about it then, the way he’d had to to prepare for the Wizengamot: that the woman he’d seen transformed during the ritual was dead. That she has been a person, and now she was ash, if even that.

“I’ve always seen them,” Luna explains. “My mum, you see. But Hagrid told me about them. I’m sure he could answer any questions you might have.”

“Okay,” Harry says, his voice a whisper, and wonders if Neville had gone through this same realization at the end of term last year, and Harry had just… missed it.

Luna tugs gently on Harry’s sleeve at his wrist, and he follows her up to one of the carriages and inside; there are already a few Hufflepuffs in there, and once Harry and Luna are seated and the door is closed, the carriage begins to move, now full. The ride up to the castle is filled with the quiet chatter of the Hufflepuffs; Harry stays quiet, and so does Luna, watching him with her pale blue eyes.

By the time they reach the castle, at least, Harry has managed to convince himself that he’s okay—okay enough to get through dinner and get to bed, at least. He thinks he might have nightmares; he loves Hogwarts, but it no longer feels as safe as it had last year. Not as safe as the Doghouse does, at least. But his friends are here, and his teachers, and the lingering memories of long chats with Sirius and flying in the Quidditch pitch and running along the edge of the lake with Blaise or Padfoot or both by his side. That’s enough to bolster him, that and the bright shining stars high in the ceiling of the Great Hall, unhidden for once by autumn cloud cover.

Harry slides into place beside Theo and smiles at him when he glances over, says hello quietly; Theo, and Blaise on Theo’s other side, greet him in return and the three of them make their way to the Slytherin table as the column of returning students files into the Hall, people finding Housemates and friends and chatter beginning to rise up toward the high ceiling and fill the air with the excitement of a new term.

“How was your summer?” Harry asks, once he and Theo and Blaise are seated. “Sorry I missed you on the train.”

“Not a problem,” Theo says, and there’s something a little stiff, a little distant in his voice. He looks paler than usual, his cheeks a bit sallow, and there are dark circles under his eyes—not so very noticeable, but enough. “My summer was fine.”

 _That’s about right_ , Harry thinks, remembering letters he’s exchanged with his friend over the summer. Theo is frightened, though he’s not showing it now that they’re back at school. And he’s been asking questions that Harry can’t give him answers to. “What about you, Blaise?” Harry asks, instead of pressing.

Blaise glances between the two of them; he’s clearly picking up on the tension, but he doesn’t pry. Not right now, anyway. “Good,” he says, and launches into a story about his and his mother’s trip to South Africa, the magical zoo they’d visited there and all the interesting people they’d met. He gets most of the way through the story when a hush falls. Dumbledore has risen and gestured to the Great Hall doors, and much like last year they open promptly to admit the small crowd of tiny new first years, huddled together, staring around with wide eyes and open mouths at the grandeur of Hogwarts arrayed around them. Professor McGonagall is tall and stately at the front of the column, as always, and the clearing of her throat carries throughout the crowd as she comes to stand behind the stool with the Sorting Hat, which opens its mouth and begins to sing as soon as it’s settled.

“ _Welcome, welcome, one and all_

_Come sit down, have a chat_

_I may look like a bag of rags_

_But I’m the Sorting Hat!_

_You may think I’m now too old_

_Scuffed and torn by time and wear_

_To know my stuff, my this from that_

_But have a listen, have a care._

_I will sort you, House by House_

_But in times of trouble, four join as one;_

_You are the heart of Hogwarts now_

_By you must battle here be won._

_With badgers’ claws fight Hufflepuff,_

_Great builders, loyal friends_

_Tireless and steady as the tides_

_They’ll defend their home to the very end._

_And none may stop keen Ravenclaw_

_From seeking truth down every path_

_They’ll never let a question lie_

_Try to stop them; meet their wrath._

_Slytherin, who know their own minds,_

_Who pursue desire without shame_

_Who hold the world in their palm_

_And fear nothing that can be named._

_Gold Gryffindor with bared blade_

_Will never bend to whisp’ring voice_

_That comes to share a tale of fear;_

_They stand tall, certain in their choice._

_I read your minds, I don’t make them up_

_You must do that each yourselves_

_The tools we place into your hands_

_… Well, don’t leave them on the shelves.”_

There’s a pause, and then at the same time as other whispers begin to fill the Great Hall, Blaise says, quiet and dry as dust, “That bodes well.”

Harry and Theo snort in unison, share a glance—uneasy, uncertain, but shared—and then Harry says, “It’s not like this school ever _isn’t_ a battleground, at least for Slytherins.”

“True,” Blaise sighs, and runs a hand through his hair. He’s only gotten more handsome over the summer, starting to come into the sharp aquiline features he inherited from his mother. She’s a renowned beauty, Harry now knows from Sirius, and one equally renowned for her black widow tendencies, not that anyone has ever been able to prove anything. Whether Blaise will grow up to emulate her, only time will tell, but he’ll surely have the same number of eager suitors, courting death or no.

In the background, the Sorting starts up, all the tiny first years being sent to their new homes. Harry listens with half an ear, but the only name that catches his attention is Astoria Greengrass, Daphne’s sister, who of course ends up in Slytherin. Blaise and Theo have both fallen quiet, so Harry looks around, up and down the Slytherin table, taking in who’s present.

Gemma and Hussain, sitting near the end of the table with Warrington and Higgs, as usual—Gemma’s made Head Girl this year, which surprises Harry not at all. Her counterpart, he’d heard on the train, is Percy Weasley, whose rigidity she will hopefully balance. Marcus Flint, as promised, is sitting a little further down the table among the rest of the Quidditch team. Harry isn’t sure if he’s been made Captain again, given that he failed his exams, but Snape might slide around the rules in some way; he surely suspects as much or more than Harry does that Flint flunked on purpose. As if noticing someone watching, he glances up and meets Harry’s eyes. A rare flicker of expression passes over his stony features, but Harry doesn’t have time to identify it before it’s hidden again. Flint nods, and then looks away; Harry moves on as well, skimming his gaze past the other members of the Quidditch team—he knows where their loyalties lie.

Draco Malfoy is holding court among his remaining faction of sycophants, near the middle of the table—Pansy Parkinson and Crabbe and Goyle, as well as a small handful of second and fourth years. Harry showed him up last year, but power is a slippery thing in Slytherin, and if he wants to hold onto it he’ll have to do _something_ , especially after the mess with the papers over the summer. It’ll depend a little on what the Death Eaters with children have told them about Harry; he’ll have a week or two to feel that out before he needs to make any decisions about what to do, he thinks.

And of course the neutrals, mixed in here and there. Harry exchanges a polite nod with Iuliana Urquart, who’s sitting across the table from Millicent; interesting. It’s all… interesting. Harry sighs, rubs his forehead, and then shakes his head when Blaise shoots him an inquiring look. “It’s nothing,” Harry says. “Just… somehow I always manage to forget over the summer how _complicated_ Hogwarts is.”

“Not like your summer was quiet, though,” Theo points out. “You’ve been in the papers an awful lot.”

“I know,” Harry says. “Not by choice.”

“Well, yes, they were calling you a liar and mad, or implying it,” Blaise says. “I can understand why you’d not want that.”

“I don’t care what they call me,” Harry says intently, “so long as they tell the truth about the Dark Lord.”

Both Blaise and Theo stare for a moment, and Harry sighs internally. _The Dark Lord_ is the phrasing of a Dark-aligned wix and Harry knows it; he’d much rather just say _Voldemort,_ but he has to be careful. Before he’s forced to answer any questions, though, the Sorting ends and Dumbledore rises amid the last of the applause for the final first-year (Zhou, Annie; Hufflepuff).

“Thank you, and welcome back, one and all,” Dumbledore says, once silence falls. “A few brief—”

“Hem hem,” says someone at the staff table. Harry looks up that way for the first time—in truth, he’d been avoiding meeting Snape’s eyes, but he’d also been wanting to put off finding out what manner of person had taken over Sirius’s job. He knows they won’t be as good. And, indeed, it looks like the new addition to the staff table is a real character, but not the type Harry would expect to be much good at Defence. A small woman with a round face and curled hair wearing an incredibly pink outfit rises from her seat, folding her hands in front of herself as she does so. She has the features of a particularly grumpy toad: round eyes and wide thin lips which she somehow folds into a simpering smile.

“Headmaster Dumbledore,” she says. She makes _headmaster_ sound like a dirty word. “Perhaps I might address the students?” It’s not really a question.

“Of course, Professor Umbridge,” Dumbledore says, with a shocking amount of grace. Harry doubts he would have been able to restrain some amount of sarcasm if he were in Dumbledore’s shoes.

Umbridge, apparently the woman’s name, turns her slimy smile on the student body. “Hem hem,” she says again. Her voice is high but reedy, as if her girlish tone is affected rather than natural; Harry already hates it, and can’t imagine a year of listening to her give classroom lectures is going to be enjoyable at all. “Dear children, my name is Dolores Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic, and I am to be your new Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts! You see, children, there is no higher priority for your Ministry than the nurturing and molding of the young minds of the next generation, and so I have been appointed here by your caring Minister to ensure that each of you is well-taught. I will act in the fullness of my authority as your professor to ensure that each of you is able to get the _most_ out of your education, and that you are not distracted from this vital task! Each and every one of you has been given the _gift_ of magic, and must learn to use it to become fruitful members of our society.

“I understand that in years past you have been given some _unorthodox_ instruction, but I assure you all that I will do my utmost to get you back on track. There are important traditions of magical society that have been neglected in your education so far, and it is these that I will emphasize! I cannot wait to see all your smiling faces in my class, eager to be prepared for the world as it truly is!”

Harry decides at that point to tune Umbridge out. He’s gotten the gist already: she’s here to make sure that no one is saying anything at Hogwarts that the Ministry doesn’t like. He doesn’t doubt that this is in response to Sirius and Dumbledore’s more inflammatory remarks over the summer about the return of Voldemort, combined with their mutual influence in the school last year. Well, she’ll just have to deal with it—if he hadn’t been willing to let the papers lie about Voldemort all summer, he’s not going to let _her_ lie about Voldemort to him or anyone else during the school year, no matter how much the audience for those lies has shrunk. Inside, he wants everyone to be _ready_ when the war comes; on the outside, well, he _did_ make a promise to Voldemort that he’d spread the message.

“This is nonsense,” Theo whispers to Blaise and Harry, once Umbridge has gone on for a few more minutes about _the noble traditions of the magical world_ and _molding young minds_ and whatnot.

“Of course it is,” Blaise drawls, also in an undertone, though he doesn’t bother to whisper; all around them others are starting to talk quietly, ignoring the long-winded and repetitive speech. “It’s the Ministry.”

Harry snickers. “You’ve got that right.”

“Children!” Umbridge trills from behind the staff table. “Your attention please! I am not done speaking! Listen to this important message.” Then she keeps going on for another few minutes, over top of the rising tide of chatter. Finally, she says, “And we will certainly have a very good year, if you are all good and obedient children, yes? Yes!”

“Thank you, Madame Umbridge,” Dumbledore says, before she can say anything else or leave an awkward silence hanging for too long. “I agree, it will certainly be an interesting year.” That, Harry notes, is _not_ the same thing as a ‘good’ year. Not that anyone ever said Dumbledore was an idiot.

Dumbledore goes on to his usual announcements—the Forbidden Forest is forbidden, blah, blah; Harry watches Umbridge. She’s glaring at the Gryffindor table. In part, he suspects, because they’d been ignoring her with the most gusto a few minutes ago, but probably also because Neville is there. Of the two of them, he’s the easier target for her vitriol if she’s going to try to push that they’d been lying about Voldemort—which he has no doubt she will. She seems like a head-in-the-sand type.

The worst part, Harry thinks, is that if she comes after Neville he won’t be able to stand up for him. He can stand up for himself and for the truth, but he has to distance himself from his Gryffindor friends. Maybe it won’t make a difference, but… it’ll be safer for him and for them if they’re just not friends for a while. It’ll be fine, he thinks. They’re really closer with one another than they are with him, the same as Blaise and Theo; he’s gotten by without friends before, and he can do it again.

It’s not going to be a good year, but Dumbledore was right: it’ll be an interesting one.

* * *

After the Feast, Harry and his friends head for the Slytherin dormitory. There’s a small crowd gathered in the common room already when they arrive, and they snag a space leaning against the wall by the doorway to the boys’ dorm rooms. As usual, not long after the first years are ushered in by the fifth year Prefects, Snape appears, swooping in with a swirl of his black cloak and coming to stand at the centre of the group. Silence falls, everyone seeming to hold their breaths as they all wait for him to speak.

“All of you should be aware,” Snape begins, after a pause where he sweeps his gaze over the group, “that things may be different within Hogwarts this year. The Ministry’s presence within these halls will change the dynamics: between student and teacher, and between each House and all of the others. For us, as the perpetual outsiders at Hogwarts, this may be an opportunity… or a significant threat. Each of you, indeed, may find that that pendulum swings differently, and even differently at different moments. Such is the way of things within Slytherin.

“The clever know how to go with the tides… and when to resist them. I hope you will all choose well. I hope also that you will not fear to use all the resourcefulness that comes naturally to this House. I do not doubt that each of you will learn that being clever and quick in order to protect one’s own interests sometimes also requires bravery, or wits, or stubborn immobility.”

There’s a laugh, and Snape tilts his head slightly, but he doesn’t smile. “The other Houses pretend that their own way is the best and only: the Ravenclaws believe they can think their way out of any box and so rarely see what is beyond the bounds of their own minds; the Gryffindors will bull through any obstacle even if it means breaking themselves to do it; the Hufflepuffs persevere through all adversity, clinging until they’ve been worn to dust. We know that there are _many_ ways to a goal. That is what being _clever_ is. Know yourself. Know your resources. And never, ever be afraid to use what you know.”

There are nods all around the room, Slytherins absorbing their Head of House’s words. Harry smiles, and doesn’t hesitate to meet Snape’s eyes when the professor looks his way; the brush of Legilimency that comes is expected, and Harry receives a nod of approval when Snape touches the edges of his shields. Then Snape looks away, nods to his collected Slytherins, and strides away again, leaving the Prefects to finish the job of ushering the first years to their new rooms. The rest of the crowd disperses quickly, students seeking dorm-mates and then their beds, and Harry goes with Blaise and Theo, the three of them sharing a companionable silence as they return to their cozy dorm, with its familiar dark furniture and green bedspreads. Harry sighs contentedly when he lays eyes on his bed once more, and jumps up to flop onto it, making Theo laugh.

“Tired already, Harry?” he says, teasing.

“A bit,” Harry admits, and shuffles to lie down properly on his back. He tries very hard not to react when something under his pillow makes the soft sound of crinkling paper when he lays his head upon it; Blaise and Theo both seem not to hear, and Harry shifts cautiously. He hears the sound again, and thinks, _What now?_

Blaise stretches and goes over to his trunk. “Well, I’m going to get ready for bed.”

Theo shakes his head, but he begins unpacking, and Harry rises to do the same. If whatever it is that’s under his pillow were urgent, it would have come to him another way; whoever left it (Snape? Dumbledore? some unknown other?) had to have known that he would need to wait until he could look at it away from his friends.

After unpacking, Harry gets ready for bed too—Theo complains about Blaise and Harry’s early-to-bed-early-to-rise outlook, but after the huge meal at the Feast and the long train ride, he must be feeling sleepy as well, because he crawls into bed at nearly the same time as they do. Harry closes his curtains after bidding goodnight to his roommates, glad that his frequent insomnia (and subsequent late-night reading) have made that a normal habit of his already, and then waits in the enveloping darkness of his bed until the room outside has fallen quiet. Then he waits a little longer, until he can hear Theo’s soft, nasally snores. Then, as quietly as he can, he slides a hand under his pillow and extracts the scrap of parchment and lights his wand, still clutched in his hand, with a soft, “ _Lumos_.”

 _Potter_ , says the parchment in Snape’s spidery handwriting. _You have been summoned. Seek me tonight, as soon as possible; do not be seen._

Harry’s mouth twists, and he squeezes his eyes tight shut. He’s back at Hogwarts. He was supposed to be _safe._ Maybe not from the politics, from having to be alone without his friends and from suspicion and stress, but from _this_.

But, he reminds himself, nowhere is safe. Hogwarts isn’t safe, the Doghouse isn’t safe, there is no person or place in the world that is safe for him any more; Voldemort has been inside his mind and will be again, and everything is different for him now. He has to be stronger than this. So he scrubs a hand over his face, whispers, “ _Nox_ ,” and in the darkness slides out of his curtains and over to his wardrobe. He moves as silently as he can, and fortunately both of his roommates do seem to be asleep; he manages to dig out a robe and then, from his trunk, his Invisibility Cloak without either of them stirring. The rowan wand is still in its place in the holster on his thigh under his pyjama pants, and he steps into his boots without socks. His holly wand he retrieves from his bedside table, along with his glasses, and then he slings his Invisibility Cloak on over his shoulders with a near-silent _shush_ of fabric and slips out of the dorm.

The common room is empty, somewhat to his surprise, but he supposes it has been some time since Snape gave his speech. Perhaps an hour, an hour and a half—he doesn’t have a good sense of it. No point casting a _Tempus_ ; it doesn’t really matter. All that matters is that he gets to Snape as quickly as possible; best not to keep the Dark Lord waiting.

As he walks down the silent black stretch of hall between the Slytherin common room and Snape’s office door, Harry checks his Occlumency construct, layering the shadow he walks through even now through some of the halls where he keeps parts of his inner self, hiding the windows to his heart in the shroud of night, letting not even a shred of pale bright moonlight shine in. Voldemort hasn’t looked there yet, but better that he never has the chance to get curious; better he be preoccupied seeking in the darkness for Harry’s other secrets. He buries his loneliness there, the tension between himself and Theo, the knowledge he’d just rediscovered within himself that _nowhere is safe_. That, he thinks, will be convincing: a boy’s insecurities, rather than a spy’s falsehoods.

Then he’s at Snape’s door, and he greets the snake portrait hiding the entrance, taps on the frame, and enters as soon as the door swings open, pushing his Cloak off his shoulders as he goes; by the time he’s within line of sight, he’s fully visible and the Cloak is once more only a slippery silver piece of fabric. Snape is waiting, standing by the fire, and he says as Harry steps into the room, “Leave anything you could not bear to lose. It will be safe here.”

Harry nods, even though Snape’s not looking at him, and folds the Cloak neatly, then leaves it on the visitors’ chair in front of Snape’s desk.

“Are you prepared?” Snape says, turning finally to face Harry. “The Dark Lord will grow impatient if we delay.”

“I’m ready,” Harry replies simply. He wills it to become true, as if saying it were like casting a spell.

Snape nods and then walks to the door, brushing past Harry’s shoulder as he goes. Harry turns and follows him back out into the black halls. He wants to light his wand, because Snape, all in black, is a shadow among shadows, but he knows it would be foolish. Instead he just listens as hard as he can for the faint _tap_ of Snape’s bootheels on the stone floors of the dungeons and follows that until they reach a corridor with windows, where he’s finally able to see again. They emerge onto the ground floor some distance from the Entrance Hall, by Harry’s reckoning, and then make their way through a narrow side-door that Harry has never seen before onto the grounds, and then on and on, around the outside of the castle by a winding path, through a courtyard, and then across the covered bridge. It’s a long, cold walk, and the wind whistles through the open windows of the bridge and between the trestles below them, a hollow and pained noise. Harry shivers in the cool air, his robe over his pyjamas doing little to prevent the breeze from blowing right through him, and he wishes he’d brought a cloak beside his Invisibility Cloak.

Finally, they make it across the bridge and some distance further, out into the edges of the forest. There, Snape stops, turns to Harry, and says, “We are beyond the ward boundary. Take my arm.”

Side-along Apparition, then; Harry had been wondering. He sighs and does as he’s been told, and in the next moment is wrung by the teleportation. They land hard, and Harry’s knees buckle before he can stop them; he lands among dewy grass and stays there a moment to catch his breath. When he looks up, Snape is waiting once more, impassive. They’re in the middle of a grand lawn outside the fence of an estate of some kind; not the Flint manor, Harry thinks. The fence is tall and filigreed, fancy and decorated with swirling patterns that after a moment Harry thinks he might recognize from one of his runes books, though these are much more complicated and very stylized. Wards, he thinks, intricate ones. Beyond the fence there’s more lawn, manicured and tidy and dotted here and there with fancy topiaries, most shaped like magical creatures.

Harry rises to his feet and Snape turns away again; he makes for the fence, and as they approach the metal shimmers and then shifts, forming a gate. It’s narrow and arching, and swings open at a gesture from Snape, who leads Harry in; when he glances over his shoulder, the gate has closed behind them and once more become part of an unbroken fence. Harry shivers, the air here warmer than at Hogwarts but still cool, and turns to follow Snape without looking back again.

The manor at the centre of the grounds they cross is huge and imposing. It has high, square walls and a few stately turrets, halfway between a country manor house and a small castle; Harry thinks that whoever lives here must think very highly of themselves. The entrance is a set of double doors, surrounded all around by stained glass panels depicting abstract patterns that recall the fence, though Harry isn’t sure if they’re further wards or if it’s simply aesthetics, and Snape opens it and leads the way inside.

The foyer is a long, high hall with a spiral staircase at the far end leading up in a half-turn to the first floor; there are doors on either side of them, and between those doors stand white marble statues that look vaguely Roman to Harry’s untrained eye. The floor, too, is marble, and the walls are whitewashed, giving the whole space the sterile atmosphere of a museum. Harry hides a grimace, and lets Snape lead the way to the end of the hall and up the spiral stairs. The hall they emerge into on the first floor has walls covered in a long line of portraits, and as they pass them Harry realizes whose house this must be, because most of the aristocratic wixen who stare down their noses at them from their painted seats have sleek platinum blond hair. The Malfoys. Of course.

Harry sighs, and Snape glances briefly over his shoulder at him, then says, “Indeed, Mr. Potter. Welcome to Malfoy Manor.”

“It’s very… big,” Harry says, as politely as he can. One of the portraits scoffs.

Snape says nothing more. They progress in silence, and finally come to an open door, from which light spills out into the hall. Thus far, everything has been lit by a dim ambient light emanating from the ceiling, the result of some enchantment, Harry imagines; this has the warm colour of firelight, and as they turn into the room he can see that, indeed, there is a fire lit in the fireplace of this large parlour room.

It’s well-appointed, with antique-looking furniture and a handsome tapestry covering one of the walls. The floor is covered with a huge Persian rug, and the fireplace is constructed out of grey stone that glitters in the light. Standing in front of the fireplace are two men, both familiar to Harry, and he takes them in. Lucius Malfoy is still dressed in tidy robes despite the late hour, and turns to look at them the moment Snape crosses the threshold. This close, it’s clear to see where Draco got his narrow features; perhaps once he reaches his father’s age, he too will have made it past _pointy_ to something more closely resembling _aristocratic,_ though the sneer when he lays eyes on Harry is exactly the same.

Voldemort, on the other hand, continues to study the dancing flames as they draw near. His profile is gilded by the firelight, but he doesn’t turn his red eyes on Harry and Snape until they’ve drawn close enough almost to touch. Snape halts a few steps away from the Dark Lord and bows deeply; after a split second, Harry remembers to do the same. When they straighten again, Voldemort says, “You are dismissed, Lucius.”

Malfoy purses his lips but bows and goes without a word, though he does shoot Harry a poisonous look. There’s a long pause, and then Voldemort says, “How is Hogwarts, Severus?”

“The Minister has stuck his nose in, my Lord,” Snape says, his tone derisive. “He has installed his Senior Undersecretary, Dolores Umbridge, in the school—I presume as a spy, though likely also to quell any thoughts of preparing the children for your rise. Not that he realizes, I’m sure, that that is what he is doing.”

Finally, Voldemort turns around and looks at them both with his garnet-red eyes. “Such an extreme measure… Interesting. Do keep me informed.”

“Of course, my Lord,” Snape says, and bows again, less deeply. “Is there anything else you would have of me?”

“Keep your finger on the children of my Death Eaters,” Voldemort says. “I would know where they stand; they are, after all, the precious next generation of the society we wish to create. Ensure that they understand this.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

A pause, and then Voldemort’s gaze shifts to Harry. “Harry Potter. You continue to obey my summons.”

Harry nods, then bows. “I know you still doubt my loyalties, my Lord, but _I_ don’t.”

Voldemort is smiling when Harry raises his head, the red of his eyes glimmering like gemstone—like the Philosopher’s Stone, with an innate fire. “Perhaps I am beginning to believe that you mean that. Severus, wait out in the hall. I shall return your charge to you in one piece.”

Snape nods, glances once at Harry, and then walks away. He shuts the door to the parlour behind him, and then Harry and Voldemort are alone together, as they haven’t been since the moment of Voldemort’s resurrection—no, not even then; they’d been surrounded by unconscious Death Eaters. Harry swallows, can feel his hands trembling finely, and knows it’s foolish to betray even that much fear, but he can’t help it. He finds himself staring at Voldemort’s collarbone, bared by the open collar of the simple shirt he wears, unwilling to meet those red eyes again.

“You are a quandary for me, Harry,” Voldemort says. His voice is low and silky smooth, and he steps forward until they’re within arm’s reach of one another. One of his hands comes up, and Harry flinches minutely; Voldemort smiles again. Those long fingers come to rest against the bottom of Harry’s chin, and he tilts Harry’s face up to look at him squarely. Harry expects the stab of Legilimency, but it doesn’t come. The Dark Lord simply studies him for a moment, and then lets go, steps away and retrieves a small object from the mantlepiece.

“I believe, however, that I have decided what to do with you.” When he turns around again, Harry sees that Voldemort is now holding a small leather-bound book. It’s clearly old, worn, and he grasps it with a certain confident familiarity that makes Harry think that it’s his, and has belonged to him for a long time. “Tell me, Harry, have you ever heard of the Chamber of Secrets?”

Harry begins to shake his head, then hesitates—it does ring a bell. “I—I’m not sure, my Lord.”

“Perhaps you heard a ghost story in the Slytherin common room,” Voldemort says. “That is how it began for me. I, too, dismissed the idea as such—Salazar Slytherin’s secret chamber, his monster, the quest for purity and _safety_ that resulted in his split from the others… a fairy tale. But later, as I grew to know Hogwarts better, I sought her secrets—one of them being, indeed, the very _Chamber_ of Secrets. And I found it, you see. Now, Harry, I task you to do the same: find Salazar Slytherin’s Chamber of Secrets, and hide this there.”

He holds out the book, and Harry takes it. The leather is soft and weathered, and before he thinks about it he flips it open and thumbs through the pages. To his surprise, the book is blank—he’d expected it to be some sort of grimoire, or maybe a diary, not that he can easily imagine Lord Voldemort keeping a journal. Then he realizes he’s just casually thumbed through what could have been the Dark Lord’s secrets right in front of him, and he looks up to meet Voldemort’s eyes.

Fortunately, the Dark Lord looks amused, rather than furious. “For a Slytherin, you do have a streak of boldness,” he says. “That may serve you well in your hunt.”

Harry swallows hard and nods. “So, you want me to… find this Chamber, and put this there?”

“Indeed,” Voldemort says. “You have until the end of your current school year. And I hope that you are under no illusions about what happens to those who fail me.”

“None, my Lord,” Harry says, and bows deeply with the book tucked close to his chest.

“Good.” The Dark Lord flicks a hand when Harry has risen, and says, “Begone, then, before your _doting_ Headmaster makes note of your absence.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Harry murmurs, bows again once more, and turns on his heel to head for the door.

He makes it almost all the way there when, from behind him, Voldemort calls, “Oh, and Harry: feel free to record some of your thoughts in that journal. When I was your age, I found such a practice helped me to… maintain my self-possession.”

Harry glances over his shoulder, nods as respectfully as he can, and then darts out through the door. He relaxes a small bit when he realizes that Snape is waiting right outside, stationed by the door like a guard. He turns his head to look at Harry as Harry comes through the door, and Harry nods to him.

“Onward then, Potter?” Snape drawls, and Harry can tell he’s looking at the book Harry is clutching, but he doesn’t remark on it—not yet.

“Yes, sir,” Harry says.

The walk out of Malfoy Manor feels much shorter than the walk in, and soon enough they’re beyond the wards and Snape is taking them both back through the crush of Apparition to Hogwarts. They walk back to the castle side-by-side, Harry’s eyes fixed on the distant dark silhouette of the only fortress he’s ever known; at this hour only a few windows here and there are glowing gold. Most of it is black against the cloudy sky, looming above them. They come to its walls and walk alongside them, and then slip into the same narrow doorway they exited from, down into the dungeons and the inky pools of shadow there, and then finally, _finally_ , back into the tight and familiar quarters of Snape’s office, now dimly lit by a dying fire.

Snape pauses to stoke the fire back up slightly, enough so that they can see one another, and then turns to Harry and looks at him for a long minute.

“What did the Dark Lord give you?” he says, when he finally speaks.

Harry holds up the book silently, but when Snape reaches out to take it, he draws it back. “It’s his,” he says. “A diary or something.”

“What does it say in it?”

“Nothing.” Harry opens the book to demonstrate, showing Snape the blank pages, each leaf of paper a little brittle and browned with time. “It’s empty.”

“Hm,” says Snape, watching as Harry flips forward through the book to show that each and every page is blank—until he reaches the front cover, which Harry hasn’t seen before. Scratched there faintly is what looks like a name: _T.M. Riddle_ , in slanting schoolboy’s handwriting. The name is faintly familiar.

“Is…” Harry starts, staring at it. This book, he knows, belongs to Lord Voldemort. So: was T.M. Riddle the original owner? Or is T.M. Riddle the _current_ owner?

“Not a question for midnight on the first night of term, Mr. Potter,” Snape says abruptly. “Did he have any task for you? Or did he simply give this object into your keeping?”

Harry hesitates, and then says, “I don’t think _that’s_ a question for midnight on the first night of term, either, Professor. If you don’t mind my saying so.”

Snape lets out a long breath through his nose. Then he says, “Indeed. Go to bed, Potter.”

Harry isn’t going to argue with that; he goes, taking his Cloak and the diary. His dorm, when he finally reaches it again, is quiet and still. Theo and Blaise are still sleeping, and Harry shucks his boots and his robe and joins them as quickly as he possibly can—not as quick as he’d like, not with Voldemort’s red eyes and the soft leather cover of the diary with _T.M. Riddle_ written on it warring for attention at the front of his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did have a question for everyone. I'm very curious: how did you find this fic? Was it recommended to you? Did you find it just browsing a tag, and if so, which one? If you can remember and feel like telling me, drop me a line below!
> 
> <3


	5. The DA

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thank you to everyone for responding with your answers to my little "poll" at the end of the last chapter about where you found this fic! It's been really interesting. I got a lot of comments on the last chapter, so I haven't been replying as readily as I usually try to--I'll try to catch up a bit and send some responses to you lovely folks <3
> 
> If you're a new reader, please do feel free to still drop me a line if you're interested in answering the question! I'm definitely still curious.
> 
> For now, though, enjoy the chapter! I'm fond of this one.

Neville doesn’t hate a lot of people. It doesn’t come naturally to him. He doesn’t even really think that he hates Voldemort, even though Voldemort killed his parents. He thinks Voldemort needs to be stopped, and he knows—his grandmother has told him again and again—that he’s responsible for stopping him. But… knowing that it’s his job doesn’t make him hate.

Bullies? Bullies make him hate. Bullies make him angry right down inside, and they make him feel sick and sad, because he doesn’t always know what to do, but he always knows it’s _wrong_. And Dolores Umbridge is a bully.

The first Defence Against the Dark Arts class of the year was enough to set the tone. She sat them all down in individual desks, lined up in tidy perfect little lines, and she handed out textbooks. _Defensive Magical Theory_ , by Wilbert Slinkhard: Neville opened it and almost, _almost_ groaned out loud. “Basics for Beginners” was the title of the first chapter, and almost every chapter thereafter had a name like “Common Defensive Theories and their Derivation” or “The Case for Non-Offensive Responses to Magical Attack”. If they hadn’t known from her speech at the Welcoming Feast, it was obvious just from her choice of text book what her policy of teaching was going to be. No real _defence_ against the threats rising in the magical world—instead she was going to bury her head in the sand as deeply as she could, and she was going to bury the rest of them with her. Literally.

Neville sighs. Next to him, Ron makes a vaguely inquisitive noise, but doesn’t look up from the game of chess he’s conducting against Seamus’s pieces.

“Umbridge,” Neville explains, and taps the open pages of his Defence textbook. He’d been _trying_ to do the reading—even aside from being friends with Hermione, his gran would kill him if he failed a class. Even _this_ class.

“Right, mate,” Ron mutters, makes a move on the chess board, and then sits up and stretches. “What’re we going to do about her, d’you think?”

Neville shrugs. “I mean, what _can_ we do? She’s a teacher. And she works for the Ministry.”

“So?” Ron rolls his eyes. “Quirrell was literally evil.”

“Yeah, but _we_ didn’t do anything about that,” Neville points out. “We just told, uh, the teachers. And Umbridge _is a teacher_.”

“Right.” Ron scratches the back of his head. “Well, I don’t know. But we can’t just… sit around, can we?”

“ _Obviously_ not,” says Hermione, at the same time as she sits down hard on the couch next to Neville, enough to bounce him slightly. His Defence textbook tumbles out of his hands and lands face-down, open on the floor; he doesn’t bother to pick it up. “There’s going to be a _war_. We need to know how to defend ourselves!”

“It’s still only the first week,” Neville says, in an attempt at optimism. “Maybe she’ll get better?”

Hermione shakes her head decisively. “I’ve spent all afternoon reading that _drivel_ ,” she says, and gestures at the book. Neville and Ron share a startled glance. Hermione’s _never_ that disrespectful to books. “It’s absolute rubbish! She’s never going to get better—all this book has in it are strategies for _conflict resolution_ and _non-violent solutions_. Non-violent solutions are not going to save any of us from Death Eaters!”

“No,” Neville says, and scrubs a hand back through his hair. “So… what do you think? Because, well, you _are_ right. And _I’ve_ been getting extra tutoring, and a few other people, like Harry, because we’re… targets. But that’s not going to help everyone else.”

“We should start a club,” Hermione says decisively.

“A… club?”

“Er,” says Ron. “Didn’t Umbridge just put up a sign today banning student clubs?”

And, yes, Neville does remember seeing that—he recalls vaguely something about the Hufflepuff Quidditch team that had maybe prompted it, though the badger House had closed ranks pretty quickly, so no one’s exactly sure.

“Yes,” Hermione says. “That’s what made me think of it! She clearly doesn’t want us organizing against her, which means that’s _exactly_ what we should do!”

Neville and Ron exchange a glance, and then Neville leans in and says more quietly, “Okay, but how do we even do it? We don’t… we don’t know enough to teach Defence, especially not to the upper years.”

“That’s where you come in, Neville,” Hermione says. “You’re going to go talk to Cedric Diggory.”

“Cedric Diggory?” Ron asks. “The Hufflepuff Captain?”

“And their fifth year Prefect,” Hermione says triumphantly. “He got banned _for life_ from playing Quidditch by Umbridge, and he’s got a good reputation. I bet he’d help us!”

Neville considers this, then nods slowly. “But why do you want _me_ to talk to him?”

“Neville,” Hermione says patiently. “You’re, well, you’re _you_. Ron and I are nobodies at best, but he’d listen to you, even though we’re only third years.”

Neville rubs his face. She’s probably right. He knows he’s not the most commanding presence, he doesn’t demand attention just by being there in the way that Hermione or Harry do, but he’s the Boy-Who-Lived and Heir Longbottom and that means people usually listen when he talks, at least at first. “Alright,” he says. “Should I try to talk to anyone else?”

“Not yet,” Hermione declares. “Try to get Diggory first. Oh, but maybe Harry?”

Neville nods. “Okay. I’ll snag Diggory when I can, and… Harry sometime, I s’pose. He hasn’t been around much lately.”

“No, he hasn’t,” Hermione says, frowning. “Well, he’s probably got a lot of his mind—it was an eventful summer, really. And now all this with Umbridge?”

“Yeah,” Ron says, nodding. “He’s been spending time with his Slytherin friends, and all.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Neville says, but Ron just rolls his eyes. Neville sighs. “Anyway. I’ll talk to him, too. Maybe after next Defence class.”

Hermione nods. “Good plan.”

They have Defence with the Slytherins this year, which means that two days later, Neville does have the opportunity to see Harry in class. Harry’s taken to sitting over on the Slytherin side of the room rather than close to his friends in Gryffindor, but because Umbridge has them all in individual desks rather than at the longer tables Sirius preferred, it sort of makes sense. Neville watches Harry during Umbridge’s dry lecture, trying to catch his eye, but Harry avoids looking at him pretty thoroughly. Maybe it’s an accident, Neville thinks, but… something about Harry’s determined forward attention when there’s no _way_ he cares about Umbridge’s high-pitched blather about ‘identifying a situation that requires defusing’ bothers him.

Then, a few minutes before the end of class, Umbridge says, “Now, please keep in mind: some wizards, particularly those who used to be Aurors, become paranoid. They will often try to tell you that a situation is dangerous when it is not, or a person is dangerous who _is_ not! You must not overestimate and over-react simply because certain former teachers of yours have been _affected_ by their experiences.”

Harry’s head, which had been bent to his notes, snaps up. Neville watches as he visibly struggles with himself; Umbridge looks his way too, and smiles expectantly, smugly. Neville grimaces in anticipation, and sure enough, Harry’s hand snaps up.

“Yes, Mr. Potter?” Umbridge asks sweetly, that smile still on her face.

“ _Professor_ Umbridge,” Harry says, his voice steady and ice-cold, “I think you should be careful about what you imply about our former teachers. Remember that one of those is Lord Black, a respected former Auror and a Peer of the Wizengamot.”

“Oh, I would never slander such an _upstanding_ Lord,” Umbridge says. “I only ask that you evaluate carefully whatever he may have taught you! He has made some inflammatory comments about the safety of our community, Mr. Potter, and I wouldn’t want those comments to colour your readiness to deal with realistic situations of day-to-day life.”

“Lord Black’s comments reflect the _reality_ of the state of our community,” Harry says.

 _Oh no_ , Neville thinks, watching Umbridge’s expression sharpen.

“There is no proof of anything Lord Black claimed in the papers this summer,” she says firmly.

“No proof beyond my own word,” Harry says. “If you’re going to call him a liar, you should call me one too—but mind yourself if you do.”

“Impudence!” Umbridge shrills. “We both know full well the _truth_ of your words, Mr. Potter: that there isn’t any. The magical world is perfectly safe, and certainly not threatened by any such thing as _the return of Lord Voldemort_.”

“I didn’t say anything about Voldemort, did I? Just that Sirius was right that the magical world isn’t safe,” Harry says. “But fine, if you want to go there. Voldemort _is_ back. I saw him with my own eyes. I _spoke_ to him. And if you want to—”

“Enough!” Umbridge shouts. “Enough, none of these lies will be had in my classroom! Detention with me, Mr. Potter, for a week, right after dinner. Am I understood?”

Harry visibly grits his teeth. There’s a beat, and then he says, “If you understand that I won’t stop speaking the _truth_ in your classroom, _Professor_ , then I understand that I’ll be serving detention for it. But this is, after all, _your_ classroom, so I suppose you can run it however seems best to you.”

“ _Two_ weeks,” Umbridge says, hisses out the words through her teeth.

Harry just smiles. “Yes, Professor,” he says. Then he looks at the clock on the wall and starts gathering his things. Umbridge looks deeply insulted for a moment, but even as she opens her mouth again, other students look as well and start to prepare to leave. The class period is over; she can’t keep them.

Neville heaves a sigh of relief. Then he scrambles to gather his books, because he needs to catch Harry on his way out.

It’s a close thing. Harry is headed away from the Defence classroom at a brisk pace, his shoulders hunched, and Neville has to run to catch up. He puts a hand on Harry’s shoulder to stop him, and Harry flinches under his touch and whirls—but he doesn’t relax much when he sees it’s Neville, just says, “Oh.”

“Harry,” Neville says, a little out of breath from his short sprint. “That was amazing.”

Harry just shrugs. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper. Did you need something?”

Neville frowns. “I… uh, yes, I wanted to talk to you.” Harry’s expression is closed and tense; he’s probably still mad about Umbridge, for all he says he shouldn’t have snapped at her. “Do you have a minute? We should talk privately.”

“Maybe,” Harry says, and takes a surreptitious look around. The other Slytherins have gone ahead, it looks like. “We can talk here.”

Neville also glances around, then shrugs. It’s true, there aren’t many people around. Still, he lowers his voice. “Hermione and Ron and I are going to try to start a Defence club,” he says. “To make sure everyone can learn to defend themselves. We were hoping you’d help?”

Harry hesitates for a moment, then he says, “I can’t.”

“What?” Neville shakes his head. “I mean, Harry… you’re the best at Defence of anyone I know. And… don’t you want to learn, too?”

“I have other ways of doing that,” Harry says, “and I’m busy. I also can’t risk getting in any _more_ trouble—Umbridge already has it out for me, and probably for you too. You’d be better off keeping your nose clean, Neville.”

Neville stares for a moment, feeling a bit blindsided. This, he’d thought, would be _exactly_ the sort of thing Harry would want to be involved in. “I… I thought—”

“Things have changed,” Harry says, almost harsh. “I… I still care about you, Neville, but after this summer, and with Voldemort, I’ve got to be more careful. You’ve got your friends, but I’m alone in Slytherin.”

“We’re your friends too, Harry!” Neville insists. “You’re not alone, you have us.”

“That’s naive.” Harry doesn’t look sorry when Neville flinches from the hurt that causes. “I won’t join your club, and I’m not going to be able to help you if you get caught, okay? So… don’t get caught. And don’t tell me anything else about it.”

Neville can feel the miserable curl of his mouth, and he drags in a breath. There’s a wet edge of tears caught somewhere in his throat, and it comes out thick in his voice when he says, “Fine.” He hates how easily he cries, sometimes. “Alright, fine. I won’t tell you. But… I’m _still_ your friend, Harry. So…”

“So?” Harry looks away then, a distant look in his eye. He’s Occluding, Neville thinks. He’s seen that look before, from when they were practicing together. Whatever Harry’s feeling, he’s locking it away. “I’d better catch up with Blaise and Theo. Bye, Neville.” He hesitates, then, just for a moment, and quietly he says, “Good luck.”

“You too, Harry,” Neville says. He doesn’t know what’s going on—everything about this feels wrong. There’s nothing he can do, though, except scrub the gathered tears from his eyes and watch Harry walk away.

* * *

It’s both easier and harder to catch Cedric Diggory than it was to catch Harry. He’s often found out in the courtyard or in one of the study halls on rainy days, or in the library, but he’s also always surrounded by people, and Neville feels a bit reluctant to approach him when there are so many other, older students about. After about a week of trying to find him on his own, however, he gives up and resigns himself to public embarrassment, and when he spots him while walking back to Gryffindor Tower after lunch with Hermione and Ron, he excuses himself and heads over that way.

Diggory is sitting in a window seat with two other sixth year Hufflepuffs, engaged in a cheerful conversation, but he looks up right away when Neville approaches and smiles. He’s got a handsome smile, warm and welcoming.

“Hello,” Diggory says. “Longbottom, is it?”

Nice of him to ignore Neville’s fame, really; then again, it’s probably obvious to just about everyone how little he likes everyone knowing him. “Hi,” he says. “Er, Diggory, I was wondering if I might have a private word? I just need a moment, really.”

“Of course,” Diggory says, and gets up immediately, waving down his friends and walking with Neville to a quiet corner where they won’t be easily overheard. There are people going past now and then, of course, but no one should be listening.

“Right,” Neville says, and has to take a deep breath to steel himself. “Listen, Diggory—this is going to sound insane, but… I need your help.”

“Sure,” Diggory says, easy-going. “What with?”

Neville lowers his voice. “Ron and Hermione and I, we’re thinking of… starting a club. A Defence club, to help everyone learn what we’re going to need to know to survive.”

Diggory’s expression goes serious, and he nods. “I see,” he says. “Well, I can see why you came to me—because of Umbridge cracking down on our Quidditch team, right? And you’ll need older students.”

“Exactly,” Neville says, relieved. “We were thinking… maybe a meeting, during the first Hogsmeade weekend, just to see who might be interested. Would you be willing to spread the word?”

“I can do that,” Diggory says. “But—well, I’m a good student, but I’m not sure I’m teaching material. I’ll do what I can, but you should have some others involved, too, if you can. And… I assume this will be open to _all_ Houses?”

Neville frowns, looks away. “I’m not sure anyone in Slytherin would come,” he says. “And those did might just be there to spy.” Malfoy and his cronies have proven themselves eager supporters of Umbridge, as have a few others.

“What about Potter?” Diggory says, and Neville looks up at him, surprised. Diggory shrugs. “Everyone knows you’re friends.”

“He’s… it’s complicated. He might be willing to pass the word, but we shouldn’t count on any Slytherins.”

“Alright,” Diggory says. “Well, even so—it would make me feel better if we had a Ravenclaw and a Gryffindor student in sixth or seventh year too, to help lead the group. With that, I’d be willing to take on a share.”

“Thank you,” Neville says. “It’s… it means a lot.”

“It’s important,” Diggory says. “I understand. And I think Umbridge is terrible too—you’re right that we’re all going to need to know how to defend ourselves in the days to come. I believe you and Potter, y’know. About You-Know-Who. I’ll do what I can to protect everyone else.”

Neville swallows, nods, and offers a hand for Diggory to shake, which he accepts with alacrity. “Hermione and I will do as much as we can to get things organized,” Neville promises. “We’ll find a meeting place, and all, at least for the first meeting. And… I’ve had some extra tutoring, from Sirius—er, Professor Black—and Dumbledore, last year. So I can try to help with the lessons, though I’m not much good speaking in front of people.”

“That would be great, Neville,” Diggory says, smiling. “Better scurry off for now, though, before we start looking suspicious. Let me know when you can what the plan is.”

“Will do.” Neville sketches a shallow bow and then hurries away, going to catch up with Hermione and Ron. Thank Merlin, he thinks, as he quietly relays the conversation to them in the Gryffindor Common Room, not long after. With Diggory—Cedric, he thinks, probably—this will be a lot easier. Not _easy_ , because they’re going to have to be very careful. But easi _er_.

The next three weeks are consumed with planning. Hermione suggests they have their Hogsmeade weekend meeting in the Hog’s Head, where they’re unlikely to be overheard by anyone else from the school; the students don’t go there, usually. This makes good enough sense to Neville and Ron, so they put the word out, as quietly as they can while still making sure it gets around.

On the upside, everyone Neville talks to seems really on board with going behind Umbridge’s back to study Defence. She’s really only gotten worse in class, and hands out detentions at the slightest provocation… and for the worst offenders, her detentions are downright cruel. Neville has seen a few people with red marks on the backs of their hands, maybe in some sort of shape—he’s not sure, but he reckons she beats people with a ruler, like some sort of horrible caricature of a mean schoolmaster. She seems to delight in the silences that fall as she strides around through the halls, equal parts hateful and fearful, and it feels like every other day that some new decree is being pounded into the wall around the doors to the Great Hall by Filch. First, no student clubs… but quickly that becomes no talking in groups of more than three in the halls, no spending time in the study halls if you aren’t studying, three feet between male and female students at all times.

“She’s a tyrant!” becomes Hermione’s repeated lament, and Neville agrees, but he doesn’t do much more than sigh and nod. Their first meeting for their Defence club will at least give them something else to worry about for a while. And maybe it’ll take Neville’s mind off Harry.

He’d tried once more to approach his friend about the Defence club, told him when the first meeting would be, but Harry had only shaken his head and walked away. It really only made Harry’s behaviour more obvious: since they’d gotten back to Hogwarts, it’s like they don’t even know each other. Harry spends all his time with Zabini, Nott and Bulstrode, or sometimes with Farley and her friends, but he never even makes eye contact with Neville or Hermione or Ron. When they try to approach him, he puts them off with excuses of homework or detention—he’s earned a few more with Umbridge, too stubborn to keep his tongue entirely in her class, though he hasn’t been as strong about it as he had been in that one early class. She just hates him now, and takes any bit of snide tone as backtalk and gives him a detention for it. Neville has seen the bandage on Harry’s hand; she’s pretty harsh on him. But he doesn’t come to them to complain.

Instead, he’s just… gone, so much of the time. Or absent in mind if not in body. He seems to be constantly studying, whenever Neville sees him, his nose bent to a book or working out runic sentences on scrap parchment or writing in a leather journal, probably keeping a calendar. Neville doesn’t get it, doesn’t understand what he’s done to drive Harry away all of a sudden—they’d been united over the summer, both of them trying to get the world to believe in what they’d seen. Maybe Harry was angry because Neville’s grandmother hadn’t allowed him to speak to the press, and so he felt like he’d been left alone to take the brunt of it? Which… was true, and Neville couldn’t blame him, but if that were the case why not say anything sooner, or at all? Harry knows that Neville would always try to help, if asked, or at least Neville would like to think so.

But there’s nothing to be done, really. Harry won’t talk to him, and Neville is sure he won’t come to the Defence club meeting, so… he’ll have to find some other way to get through to him. Somehow.

In the meantime, the Hogsmeade weekend is looming. The first one of the year falls on the very first weekend of October, and when it arrives it arrives grey and windy, but dry at least, and not too cold. Neville, Ron, and Hermione walk down to the village together, chatting, and then into a lull in the conversation Hermione says, as tentatively as maybe Neville has ever heard her, “Do you think Harry will come?”

Neville looks down, watches the toes of his boots emerge, left, right, left, right, from under his long school robe, and he tells the ground, “I don’t know.”

Ron huffs, annoyed. “Just goes to show,” he says. “He wasn’t ever much of a friend, was he, if he’s just going to drop us all for Zabini and Bulstrode and Nott at the drop of a hat?”

Neville shrugs, uncomfortable. “He saved my life, Ron.”

“Yeah, I know, so he’s a decent bloke,” Ron says. “But that doesn’t mean he’s a good _friend_ , Nev. You might as well forget him—he’s not going to show, we all know it. He’s done with us, he’s gone off to be a fancy Heir with the Slytherins and he doesn’t care about you anymore.”

That isn’t true and Neville’s _sure_ of that, because if Harry really didn’t care, he’d have turned them all in to Umbridge to get her off his back. That would be the _really_ Slytherin thing to do. But Neville is sure Harry won’t do that, for all he’s told Neville not to involve him with their new Defence club. So, yeah, maybe Harry’s been a bit of a bad friend, dropping them all of a sudden like this, but…

“Well, maybe,” Hermione is saying. She still sounds unsure. “But what if it’s that there’s something wrong, and he’s not telling us? You know Harry, he never talks about his problems.”

“I wondered that too,” Neville says.

“It doesn’t _matter_ ,” Ron insists. “He’s being a prat. If he’s not going to own up, who cares? If he wants to deal with everything by himself so badly, he can—and anyway, it’s not like he hasn’t got friends in Slytherin. He’s probably telling them. Seriously, you’ll only drive yourselves ‘round the bend trying to get inside his head. He’s a Slytherin! Who knows what he thinks?”

Neville shakes his head. They’ve had these conversations with Ron before, and he can tell Hermione is tempted to argue, but all the best to her if she does—he’s given up. No point. Ron’s too stubborn on the topic of Slytherins in general and Harry in particular to actually change his mind. Whatever the source of his grudge is, it’s ingrained. Obviously it’s _much_ worse when it comes to Malfoy, but that makes sense—his dislike of Harry doesn’t, not to Neville. Nothing to be done, though; best to choose his battles, or so his grandmother always said, and this really isn’t a battle he wants to fight.

So they go onward down into Hogsmeade in an uneasy quiet. They stop at Honeyduke’s first, to put off any suspicion, and then make their meandering way down the village road toward the Hog’s Head. They’re early, but this is also sort of their party, and Neville’s gran always said that it was gauche for the host to be ready less than a quarter hour ahead.

Probably, he decides, for this exact reason: they walk into the Hog’s Head to find Percy Weasley already there, being lectured sternly by Penelope Clearwater. They both look up when the door opens, and Clearwater smiles at them, waves, and says, “Oh, good, you’re here.”

“Uh,” says Neville.

“What are you doing here?” Ron demands immediately, stomping up to his brother. “You’re not supposed to know about this!”

“I told him,” Clearwater says, in a voice that sounds very kind but also like if Ron uses as rude a tone on her, she’ll unhinge her jaw and bite his head right off. Neville’s familiar with it; his grandmother uses a similar one when certain of the Wizengamot Peers are acting up.

“Oh,” Ron says, stymied; clearly he recognizes the tone too. “Uh. Why.”

“He’s my boyfriend,” Clearwater says. “And he’s Head Boy, and he’ll be helpful. We’re all in this together, aren’t we?”

“Of course,” Neville cuts in, before Ron can stammer too much. “We were just surprised.”

“It’s really very good!” Hermione says cheerfully. “That means we’ll have at least a sixth year from all three Houses—even a seventh year, if Cedric managed to find one from Hufflepuff!”

Clearwater smiles, then says, “We’re really not expecting any Slytherins? I mean… I’ll admit, I don’t talk to them much, but some of the other Ravenclaws have friends in Slytherin. Or, ah, acquaintances, at least.”

Hermione shakes her head. “Not that we know of,” she says. “It’s… well, it is what it is, right?”

“I suppose so,” Clearwater says, sighing, then turns to Percy and says, “Percy, why don’t you go stand at the door and shepherd the newcomers this way? We’ll set up.”

Percy is frowning, but he nods and heads over toward the door, taking a seat and watching for any students arriving. While he does, Neville takes the opportunity to look around the bar. It’s dingy and dark, and mostly empty. There’s an old wix sitting at the bar with a cloak drawn down low over their face, but after a moment of study, Neville decides they’re probably not anyone in disguise. There’s also two witches sitting at a table, playing a game of dice and laughing over tankards of some sort of drink, and of course the bartender, who’s wiping the counter and giving them all a suspicious look. But he doesn’t come over and turn them out, so they stake out some tables in the back corner and collect some chairs from around the bar, and then they wait.

People trickle in, some alone, others in twos and threes with friends and Housemates. It’s a good mix of Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Gryffindor, though the latter two are better represented. Cedric arrives just on time, and he waves at Neville, Hermione, Ron, and Clearwater, but he heads for the bar first, and speaks with the bartender, then hands over some money and receives after a minute a tray with pitchers of water and juice, and tall stacks of glasses. This he brings with him when he comes over and greets them cheerfully.

“Good crowd already, isn’t it?” he says, setting down the tray. “And there’s sure to be some stragglers.”

“Yes,” says Clearwater, sounding satisfied. “No small bit because of you, Diggory; thank you for your efforts.”

He shrugs, a little sheepish. “It’s important. Anyway, really we should be thanking you three,” he says, turning to Neville, Hermione, and Ron. He smiles winningly; Hermione flushes a little and ducks her head. “It was your idea, after all.”

“Hermione’s, really,” Neville says, happy to hand over the credit. “Should we start?”

“Probably best,” Cedric says. “Clearwater? You want to call us to order?”

“Certainly,” she says, and collects a glass and a spoon from the tray, rises, and taps the glass several times. It produces a clear ringing noise, which carries through the bar over the chatter that had been rising in volume as people gathered, and everyone turns their attention to her. “If everyone would come sit down, please?”

There’s a bit of a shuffle as everyone finds seats—there are more than twenty people present, and the Hog’s Head really isn’t that large. They end up commandeering the last of the available chairs, and the witches who had been playing dice shift to a table further from theirs, shaking their heads at the commotion. Once everyone is settled, Clearwater clears her throat and says, “Welcome, one and all, to the first meeting of the yet-unnamed Defence club. First, I would like to reiterate something that all of you must know already: what we are doing is against school rules, and if Madame Umbridge were to find out, we would be in danger of suspension or even expulsion.”

There’s a bit of murmuring, but people nod, too, some turning to whisper to their friends. Once it’s quiet again, Clearwater continues, “With that in mind, if there is anyone who does not wish to put themselves at further risk, you are free to leave now. We all understand—some of us have families whose reputations we must protect; others cannot afford to be deprived of a Hogwarts education for the sake of our futures.”

Neville remembers, quite abruptly, that Penelope Clearwater is a muggleborn. She belongs to the latter class she’d mentioned; if she’s expelled without qualification as a fully-trained witch, her odds of ever being able to find a job in the magical world are very low. He swallows. If he gets caught, well, he’ll still be Heir Longbottom, and he’ll still be the Boy-Who-Lived; Umbridge can’t really touch him. But for some of these people—he looks over the crowd, sees faces of others he knows are muggleborn, and some whose Families he knows are poor, like Ron and his brothers—the stakes are a lot higher.

But no one leaves. Instead, Clearwater turns to Neville and Hermione and says, “Perhaps you two would like to introduce the idea, seeing as it came from you?”

Hermione nods, but then she doesn’t say anything. She looks at Neville. Panicked, Neville looks back, and she just makes a sort of _go on_ gesture, urging him forward.

His whole head is full of _no, why, no_ , but he clearly hasn’t got much of a choice, so he squares his shoulders and steps forward. “Uh,” he says, which is really just an _excellent_ start. “Well, um, I’m Neville Longbottom.”

“We know!” shouts one of the Weasley twins, from somewhere in the middle of the group. Everyone laughs. For someone else, Neville thinks, this would maybe break the tension; it only winds him tighter.

“I… in April, I got kidnapped by Death Eaters,” he says. A silence falls, hard and heavy, over the group. “I couldn’t do anything about it. I’ve never been so scared in my life, and it was really only because I had a friend by my side, who’d been learning with me how we could defend ourselves, that I managed to keep my head. But I _did_ manage, eventually, to remember some of the things Lord Black taught me last year—how to assess a situation, how to find my tools… how to know when to run. I’d be dead without those lessons, and the other lessons I’ve had in Defence.”

He pauses, clears his throat, and looks down at his shoes. “I’m probably not a good person to be talking about how we all need to be great at defending ourselves with magic. I’m actually a bit pants at it. But I know that we all need to know how to defend ourselves _somehow_ , because the next kid who gets kidnapped by Death Eaters might not be me.

“I know not everyone believes what Harry said, still,” he says. “About Voldemort—” he has to pause to let the gasps and muttering pass. “About _him_ being back. But I know what I saw, and I know Harry wouldn’t lie. So… war is coming. We have to be ready. That’s all.”

Embarrassed, knowing he probably just made a muck of it, Neville steps back to Hermione’s side. She lays a hand on his arm, briefly, and Ron bumps his shoulder against Neville’s.

“What Neville didn’t say,” Hermione says, stepping forward to pick up the thread, “but what all of us know, is that Umbridge isn’t going to teach us anything that will actually _help_ us. Most of us, except you few first years I see, remember how wonderful Professor Black’s lessons were last year, because they were things _anyone_ could use, and use well. We want to do more of that; we want to learn and teach things that everyone here can use to keep themselves and the people they care about safe, whether Umbridge likes it or not.”

“She doesn’t want us arming ourselves,” Cedric says. He’s sitting down, but he sits up, sits forward, and immediately has the attention of the room. “She doesn’t want us to realize how capable we really are. She believes in the power of the Ministry, and wants us to believe in that too—and that’s all well and good, but not even the Ministry can be everywhere all the time. I believe in the Ministry too, in our society and our government, but I _don’t_ believe in being controlled by it. We’re all our own people—everyone remembers the Sorting song this year, right? We can each make up our own minds, and we can each decide to become strong, as individuals and together.

“We can help each other,” he continues. The conviction is clear in his voice. “We can teach each other. And we can be more than she thinks we can—we’re not little kids who she can blind to the realities of the world to make us obedient little subjects. We’re young wixen; we’ve got magic, and we’ve got ourselves, and we’ve got Hogwarts.”

“Hear hear!” cries a Hufflepuff from the middle of the crowd, and there’s an outburst of cheering and shouting that takes a while to subside.

Eventually, Clearwater raises her voice again and says, “So, we need to decide a few things about how to do this. First, we’ll need a secret way to communicate when the meetings will be—Miss Granger and I have had a little brainstorming session and we think we have some ideas, but if anything springs to mind for anyone else, let us know. Once we’ve got it figured, we’ll distribute… something.

“Second, we need a place to meet. This one I’m less sure on—maybe we should have a rotating space?”

“What about the Come and Go Room?” says a new voice from the far back of the group. Some of those who are standing at the back shuffle out of the way to reveal, to Neville’s surprise, a small group of Slytherins: Gemma Farley and two of her friends, and huddling behind them, a few younger students who all look… well, haughty, like Slytherins usually do, but a bit like that’s to hide how nervous they are to suddenly have the attention of the whole group. Farley’s expression is serene, though, and the brown-skinned girl in a hijab standing at her side waves slightly. “Yes, that was me,” she says.

“Don’t look so shocked,” Farley adds smoothly. “This _is_ for everyone, isn’t it?”

Clearwater, startled, manages to gather her wits and clears her throat. “Of course,” she says, glancing at Neville and Hermione. Hermione nods firmly; Neville tries a smile. “Ah… thank you for coming.”

How had they found out? Then Neville realizes: Harry. He’s not here himself, but he’s friends, or at least allies, with Farley; he must have told her, and she told the group she has with her. Herself and her hijabi friend and Terence Higgs, and about half a dozen Slytherins from the lower years. Not many faces Neville recognizes, so maybe these are some of the snake House’s elusive halfbloods and muggleborns? But, no, not entirely—there’s Miles Bletchley, and hiding at the far back are Iuliana Urquart and Astoria Greengrass, and it’s not like Farley’s a small name, either.

But they’re not going to turn them away. It’s good, really, that all four Houses are represented—and they’ve got both the Head Boy and the Head Girl, plus at least one Prefect from all the Houses now, too.

“What was that about a room?” Cedric is saying, moving smoothly past the awkwardness in a way Neville could never pull off. “Ah, Hussain, right?”

“Yes,” the hijabi girl, Hussain—right, Harry’s mentioned her—says. “The Come and Go Room. Have any of you heard about it?”

A round of head-shakes, including from the twins, which surprises Neville a little; they seem to know everything about the castle.

“Do none of you talk to the house elves?” she asks, a bit sardonic, but shakes her head. “It’s off the seventh floor corridor. It’ll be anything you want, if you want it clearly enough.”

“That sounds… perfect,” Clearwater says. “You’ll have to show myself and Hermione.”

“No need to be suspicious,” Farley says. “I’ve been there too—it’s no trick. Well, it’s _quite_ a trick, really, but not on you. No one will be able to find us there unless we wish it.”

“That _does_ sound very good,” Hermione cuts in. “Well, we’ll have our next meeting there—seventh floor, you said? I don’t recall seeing a door…”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Hussain says mildly. She crosses her arms. “Across from the portrait of Barnabas the Barmy. Pace back and forth three times, thinking hard about what you want the room to be, and a door will appear. Try not to go check it out all at once, because then one of Umbridge’s lackeys will notice and we’ll _surely_ be caught.”

“Of course,” Cedric says. He rises from his seat and bows shallowly in Hussain and Farley’s direction. “Thank you. I’m sure this knowledge will be invaluable.”

“Believe me,” Farley says with some good humour in her voice, “we weren’t going to come empty-handed. We know we’ll need to prove ourselves to the rest of you.”

“That’s not—”

“Don’t be a fool, Diggory,” Farley says, cutting him off ruthlessly. Her tone is still mild, almost amused, but… “Not one of us in Slytherin, not even the first years, isn’t aware of what the rest of the school thinks of us, and we’re realistic about it. But like the Hat said, when the school is threatened, _four_ come together as one, not three. This is our home too, and we’ll do what we have to to prove that we’re here to protect it.”

“Being in Slytherin doesn’t make you a villain,” Hermione says firmly, stepping forward. “The first real friend I’d ever made in my life is in your House, and I’ll never forget that.”

Neville can see, out of the corner of his eye, the slightly disdainful twist of Ron’s lips. He can see the same disbelief on the faces of others in the crowd, too; he’d heard the guarded suspicion in Clearwater’s voice earlier. He agrees with Hermione, of course he does, but they’re only two people—and Farley clearly knows that. She smiles, nods, but she’s humouring Hermione at best. Behind her, some of the younger Slytherins turn their faces away, and Neville can only imagine the disbelief that must be on their faces, too.

“Declarations of intent are all well and good,” says an older Ravenclaw boy in the crowd, “but we need some sort of assurance that no one here is going to narc.”

There’s a pause, and then Cedric says, “Sorry, going to _what_?”

“Oh,” says the Ravenclaw. “Sorry—turn us over to Umbridge, I mean.”

“Right,” Clearwater says, waving away the confusion. “Granger and I talked about that, too—”

She starts explaining something about signing a piece of parchment that she and Hermione brought, and Neville leans over to Ron and says in an undertone, “When did they have this meeting?”

Ron shrugs. “Hermione’s always off in the library, mate,” he says. “They probably met there to ‘study’ and no one noticed a thing.”

“Right,” Neville says. It’s true—Hermione _does_ study more than pretty much anyone, including most Ravenclaws. If she and Clearwater had been meeting up in the library, no one would have noticed, never mind said anything about it. Good cover, really; she’s a lot better at subterfuge than Neville is, at least sometimes.

The meeting goes on, people asking questions, raising concerns—some want to know who’ll be teaching, others what, still others have questions about schedule… some things they can answer, some they can’t. Neville stays quiet for the most part—though this is his, Hermione, and Ron’s venture originally, he’s not really the leader this group needs. Better that he step back and let Clearwater and Cedric run things.

The Slytherins don’t leave, which makes him feel… better, he supposes. They aren’t Harry, but he can see Harry’s hand in them being here. It gives him hope that whatever’s going on with his friend, it’ll be fine.

Eventually, things wind down, and Clearwater pulls out her enchanted piece of parchment and a quill and sets up so that people can form a queue to sign. Neville, Hermione, and Ron’s names are right at the top of the list, followed by everyone else; it’s a long list, and that gives Neville hope, too.

Feeling warmed, he lingers at the end of the line, waiting. He tells Hermione and Ron quietly not to wait up for him, but of course they do, lingering a little ways away, closer to the door. He just shakes his head fondly, and then turns his attention back to the line, waiting until—and then there she comes.

“Farley,” he says as she goes past, and she pauses.

“Something I can do for you, Longbottom?” she asks.

“I just wanted to thank you for coming, and for bringing the others. I know—” he hesitates, laughs awkwardly. “Well, maybe this will sound more like an insult than a compliment, but I know it probably took a lot of courage to show up here.”

She studies him for a moment, in a way that reminds Neville a bit of Harry—maybe it’s a Slytherin thing, to take the measure of another person like that before speaking. Then she smiles. “I’ll take it as a compliment coming from you.”

“And… uh,” Neville says, and hesitates again. Her smile doesn’t waver, though, and it gives him the confidence to continue. “If you get the chance, tell Harry… tell him he’s still welcome.”

“He knows,” she says gently. “But I’ll tell him anyway.”

“Thanks.” He rubs a hand over his face, and then he makes a proper bow, Heir-to-Heir.

Farley bows back, still smiling that warm smile, and says, “I look forward to working with you, Heir Longbottom.”

Neville nods, then nervously he says, “I think you should call me Neville, Heir Farley.”

“Neville,” she says with a nod of her own, and then sweeps away to meet Hussain where she’s been waiting, hanging back a little—no return offer of her first name, but that makes sense. While at Hogwarts, at least, she outranks him. She’s Head Girl, after all. But it felt right to offer her the familiarity, and he hopes she takes it the way he meant it—that he admires her strength, and doesn’t at _all_ want her as an enemy.

Even the thought makes him shudder a little as he walks over to Hermione and Ron.

“Everything alright?” Hermione asks, a concerned frown on her face.

“Yeah,” Neville says. “Just fine. Let’s get some lunch, alright?”

“Alright,” she says, sounding a little doubtful. Ron just shrugs, and together, they leave the Hog’s Head… and the first meeting of the newly named Defence Association.


	6. History

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I absolutely did not almost forget to update noooooo shhhhhhhhhhh.......
> 
> Anyway. The history student in my really jumped out in this chapter, so, uh, I apologize in advance for that. But I hope you enjoy!

For all that it makes Harry’s stomach hurt to even think this, September is made a lot easier by the fact that he’s rapidly alienating all of his friends. He has enough time for research into the Chamber of Secrets, homework with Millicent and Gemma (whom he tells quietly about Neville’s club and then ignores all her attempts to get him alone), detention at least twice a week with Umbridge, and mealtime and late-night chats with Blaise and Theo, but even that much is a strain. If he were still finding time to meet with Neville, Hermione, and Ron, or if Umbridge hadn’t banned Quidditch and he had to go to practices, or if he were spending any leisure time with _anyone_ , really, he’d lose his tenuous hold on something else. As it is, he often wishes for more hours in the day. He’s got his new electives this year—Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, and Care of Magical Creatures—and though they’re definitely all interesting and he’s glad he’s taking all three, it’s also a _lot_ of extra work. Ancient Runes alone is three worksheets a week and two feet of parchment on the development of the Futhark alphabet due at the end of the third week of September. And that’s not even _mentioning_ Hagrid’s insane lessons, which he’s pretty sure are going to get him killed before Voldemort does if he doesn’t keep up with the reading.

But it’s okay. It’s okay, because he’s not talking to the Gryffindors any more, and Blaise and Theo aren’t really talking to him, except in the way they had in first year, when they were more acquaintances than friends. Whatever Theo’s dad said to him about Harry, Theo probably repeated it to Blaise. Neither of them could possibly _know_ anything, Harry’s sure of that much; if Theo knew anything he’d have told Blaise, and while neither of them is confrontational, Harry is sure their treatment of him would be much more frosty.

So instead, he turns his social time into work time, and every day he feels the strain of it a little more. It reminds him of the Dursleys, when every hour had been something to just _get through_ , because life at home was misery and the few hours he had at school weren’t nearly happy enough to distract from what he had waiting for him when he went back to Privet Drive at 3 o’clock. He’d had no one to talk to, not a single person in the world who knew enough about him to think that there might be something wrong, or who cared enough to do anything if they did know. But he’d gotten through ten years like that; he can get through a few weeks of this, just until he finds Voldemort’s stupid Chamber.

As soon as he finds the Chamber, he tells himself, he’ll write to Sirius and tell him what Umbridge has been doing. He knows that the moment Sirius finds out that Umbridge is making Harry spend hours writing _I must not tell lies_ in his own blood, he’ll be pulled out of school, and damn what the Ministry says. That can’t happen, because Harry _needs_ to be at Hogwarts—even aside from needing to find the Chamber, he needs to learn this first new magical home all over again, even better, to refresh his Occlumency. He needs to relearn what it feels like to be safe here, because if he forgets that, his mind won’t be safe either. So he endures, and he walks the corridors under his Cloak late at night whenever he can spare the sleep, the Marauder’s Map open. He studies the parchment and then walks the paths he’s mapped in his mind in the daylight between classes. He marks where the suits of armour stand and which portraits have nuns and which have unicorns, which ones talk and which sleep, the tapestries and the scones, and he searches.

The Chamber of Secrets isn’t on the Map, of course, and if it could be found even by a studied wanderer someone would have found it ages ago. But Harry finds other things: abandoned classrooms, beautiful works of art, hiding places, shortcuts. He finds trick steps (some on the Map, some not), and secret passages (all on the Map, but sometimes hidden even there). He asks the memories imprinted into the parchment about their favourite places, and visits the high walkway where his dad took his mum on a date in their seventh year and his favourite window to sit in and spy on the others Houses during their Quidditch practices. He goes to the place where Remus used to sit and study when he wanted to be alone, and the place where he’d sit when he wanted Sirius to find him. He finds a lab in the dungeons that Sirius would sneak off to by himself in sixth and seventh year to brew without supervision, where the ceiling is still decorated with scorch marks, where he says that sometimes Lily would show up and join him, which was how he knew she was alright; and the hidden store-room, converted to a lounge for the Marauders and still stocked with ugly overstuffed couches and moth-eaten cushions, where he’d first transformed into Padfoot. Harry stores away all of those places in new corners of his mind and sets up defences around them, guarding fondness and borrowed nostalgia. He goes to them as often as he can, whenever he feels most defeated.

It’s a long three weeks. On the first Wednesday of October, Harry decides that all determination aside, he’s not getting anywhere any more. He feels like he’s read everything that isn’t completely crackpot that the library has to offer on the subject, and he’s not getting anywhere. So he gathers his notes and he waits until after dinner, and then under his Cloak he slips down to Snape’s office.

When he arrives, he takes off his Cloak, stows it, and then enters without knocking; the snake in the portrait laughs at him. The door’s not locked or warded, and the portrait _does_ let him in, which makes him feel fairly confident that he’s fine to ignore Snape’s searing glare.

“Potter,” Snape says, though at least he waits until Harry has the door closed again behind himself. “What _exactly_ do you think you are doing here? I do not have office hours at this time. If you have some sort of juvenile complaint about the upcoming Hogsmeade weekend, it will wait until Friday.”

“It’s not that,” Harry says. “You’re always in your office at least for a while after dinner on Wednesdays, and I needed to talk to you.”

“How do you know that?” Snape demands.

“I pay attention,” Harry says, shrugging. He’s not going to admit that he’s been studying the Marauder’s Map, trying to learn the habits of certain people in the castle—mostly Umbridge and her cronies, but Snape too, and Dumbledore. He’s also been keeping tabs on his friends in Gryffindor, because he can’t exactly hang out with them and find out where they’ll be and what they’re up to that way.

“I see,” Snape says, in a forbidding tone. “Well. You may return when I _do_ have office hours—”

“It’s about the Chamber of Secrets,” Harry interrupts, uncaring of the scowl that appears on Snape’s face. “I figured you wouldn’t want to be talking about this at a time when people would know we were meeting, and might ask what we talked about.”

Snape visibly grits his teeth, and then says, “Fine. Speak.”

Harry smiles at him, thin and unamused, then produces a folded sheaf of parchment from his satchel. “These are all my notes on it,” he says. “I’ve been reading everything I can find about the history of Hogwarts for _weeks_ , and I haven’t found anything helpful. I reckon you’ve been doing your own research, and unlike me, you’ve got access to the Restricted Section. So?”

“Do not be impertinent,” Snape says, but he gets up and comes around his desk to snatch the notes from Harry’s hand. It’s the work of moments for him to skim through them, and then he looks up, impassive, and says, “Your conclusions are… sound.”

Harry sighs. “I was afraid you’d say that.” Because the conclusion he’s come to is that no one really knows anything. There are a lot of arguments about the Chamber of Secrets, if it exists, and what it even is if it does. Most of the historians seem to think it’s myth.

“The Dark Lord would not have sent you chasing a fairy tale,” Snape says.

“I know,” Harry says, and runs a hand through his hair, pushing the mess out of his eyes, and watches as Snape’s eyes tighten at the corners. “If he were just going to kill me anyway, he’d have just… done that, right?”

“Indeed.”

“So there must be _something_. He found it, after all.”

“He may have destroyed his materials,” Snape says, which is something that had occurred to Harry as well. That Snape was thinking it too means that that’s probably what happened—damn it.

“So… the library is a dead end?”

“Not entirely,” Snape says, and goes back over to his desk. He collects what looks, to Harry’s surprise, like a muggle file folder and brings it back, then offers it. Harry opens it, and finds that inside there are a number of documents: newspaper clippings, and once he shuffles those aside, he finds what looks like a report from the Hospital Wing, and beneath that, an official copy of a death certificate. The certificate has the name “Myrtle Warren” on it; the date of death is June 13, 1943.

“What is this?” Harry asks, reading it over. Myrtle, whoever she was, had died of cardiac arrest. The Hospital Wing sheet details that she has been a third year Ravenclaw and that she had died in Hogwarts, but is otherwise similarly lacking details of where and how.

“The only record, so far as I can tell, of the _last_ time the Chamber of Secrets was opened,” Snape says. “Attend to the clippings, Potter.”

Harry does so. The first clipping, the earliest, clearly comes at the end of a developing story, since it references earlier articles. It’s a fairly long article summarizing the events of the past few months: a series of attacks within Hogwarts by “the Heir of Slytherin,” all of which had resulted in the petrifaction of a muggleborn student. The article, published in early June, states that Hogwarts is set to be closed due to the faculty’s inability to find the perpetrator and put a stop to the attacks, “as they will soon begin to threaten magical-blooded students.” Harry scowls, reading that, but shuffles to the next article. This one is dated the same as Myrtle’s death certificate, and is about the arrest of one Rubeus Hagrid for “irresponsible keeping of restricted creatures,” and it briefly mentions that a student at Hogwarts had been killed. He frowns—Hagrid, the former gamekeeper, now Care professor? If he’d been arrested for _irresponsible keeping of restricted creatures_ why in Merlin’s name was Dumbledore letting him _teach_? The following articles don’t offer much more information; they’re very short. The third article, dated a few days later, is about Hagrid’s expulsion from Hogwarts and the breaking of his wand as punishment for his actions leading indirectly to the death of the still-unnamed Hogwarts student. The last article is a slightly longer announcement about a Special Award for Services to the School being granted to one Tom Marvolo Riddle for his work in apprehending the beast that had caused the death of a _still_ unnamed student. Harry remembers vaguely having seen that award in a case during his first year; he’d wondered then what Tom Riddle had done to earn it. Now he knows. And…

Harry’s attention catches on the name. He’s spent far more time than he’d like to admit staring at that scrawled name in the diary: _T. M. Riddle._ “You don’t think…” he says slowly.

“The plaque containing the award is still in the trophy room,” Snape says. “I will not make any declarations of surety, Mr. Potter, but I have my suspicions.”

“So he killed her?” Harry asks. He knows the answer, but…

“Presumably,” Snape says. “If indeed Riddle is who we believe he is. That name may belong to a bystander or a goat.”

Harry nods, but he somehow doubts it. He hands back the file folder and says, “Where did you find that stuff?”

“In a locked archive of school records.” Snape returns the folder to his desk and then sits down, folding his hands precisely in front of him. Harry takes the cue and goes to sit in the chair across from him. “I am inclined to believe that Armando Dippet, the Headmaster of that era, sealed the records to prevent the embarrassment of the school from becoming widely known. Hogwarts is obliged by magic to retain records of all happenings, but the school is _not_ obliged to make them public, or even accessible.”

“Right,” Harry says. “So, something bad happened in 1943, the Chamber was opened then, but it got covered up. Were there other articles?”

“Only one other with anything relevant,” Snape says, and produces another small scrap of paper. “According to the earliest article on those events, this was written on a wall in chicken’s blood just prior to the first attack.”

Harry takes the scrap and reads, written in Snape’s spidery handwriting, _Witness the great work of Salazar Slytherin; behold the power of the Secret of his Chamber._

“Right,” Harry says again, looking down at it, and then carefully folds it and tucks it into his pocket. The Heir of Slytherin hadn’t needed to call himself that—from Harry’s own reading, he knows that it’s a frequent aspect of the story that only Slytherin’s true heir, whatever that means, will be able to open the Chamber. “So… what now?”

Snape gives him an inscrutable look. “This is your task,” he says. “The Dark Lord would be displeased if I were to interfere.”

Which is to say, Harry assumes, that Snape’s not going to be any further help—and really, now that he thinks about it, he’s only been _this_ helpful because Harry came and asked the right questions. He’s probably had that file for weeks, but he hadn’t said anything. Bastard.

“Fine,” Harry says. He shoves his notes back into his satchel, indulges in a glare, and then bows and says, “Good night, sir.”

Then he turns and starts to walk away. He’s stopped part way to the door by Snape saying, “One more thing, Potter.”

“Yes, professor?” Harry turns back around, peers at Snape through the shadow. The professor’s office is dimly lit as always; Harry has no idea how he manages to work in here.

“You should do better to stay below Umbridge’s notice,” he says, and he looks down—down at where Harry’s left hand is wrapped in a bandage, mostly hidden in a slightly-too-long sleeve.

Of course he’d noticed. He probably knows exactly what Umbridge has been doing in her detentions. There’s no way he knows what Harry’s been writing, unless Umbridge had told him herself, but he’s probably had complaints from the few others Slytherins who’ve ended up in detention with her—not many of them are so unlikely to whine uselessly about her being _mean_ as Harry is. But he surely knows that Umbridge’s punishments make a rather _permanent_ impression.

“I think it’s a bit too late for that, sir,” Harry says, and he means both that there’s no way that she’ll ever be off his back, and that _I will not tell lies_ is already going to be scarred into his skin forever, no matter if he backs down now. No point, then, in backing down—now or ever.

* * *

Harry starts with the Heir of Slytherin. Or, more accurately, he starts with _Slytherin_ , as much as there is to be found about him. On the first Hogsmeade weekend—Umbridge hasn’t banned visits yet, at least—he… well, he still goes to Honeyduke’s, because he has _some_ self-respect. He and Theo and Blaise spent a good twenty minutes in there supplying themselves thoroughly, just in case Umbridge _does_ ban visits to town and they can’t come back. But he also goes to Paige & Turner, the small independent bookshop still operated by its elderly founders (the eponymous, of course, though Harry can tell from the gleam in their eyes when they introduce themselves that even after all these years, they still enjoy the pun), and buys up a few books on the history of Hogwarts and the era surrounding its founding. He goes back to the castle, takes his new books to the library, and spends a long stretch of afternoons pretending to do homework while he actually reads those and every other book that he can find that has any sort of biography of Salazar Slytherin and his descendants, cross-referencing where he can to try to sort truth from speculation from outright lies. There’s an unfortunate lot of the latter. Then he goes back to his dorm and he _actually_ does homework, somewhat half-heartedly, while he chews on everything that he’d read that day. Usually he sits with Millicent in the common room, who will nudge him when he gets too obviously distracted by the inside of his own head, but won’t actually _say_ anything about it.

Umbridge is around more than ever, which does make it hard to get any work done on his own extracurricular projects. She’s declared herself High Inquisitor, whatever that’s supposed to mean, and has taken to lurking in the corner of all of the classrooms, watching the teachers and making notes, and clearing her throat in that false, obnoxious way whenever they get close to saying something she doesn’t approve of. She knows, then, all of the assignments, and Harry’s overheard her scolding students in the halls for walking about openly carrying books that aren’t for classes they’re taking, whether they be fiction or extracurricular study—the Ravenclaws in particular are furious, but there’s not much anyone can do. Harry, too, takes to hiding his books deep in his satchel, only reading in the library when he knows she’s teaching a class, and doing a lot of his research by light of _Lumos_ under his covers.

He learns a thing or two. The first, probably the most important, is that Slytherin is probably history’s most well-known Parselmouth. It explains a lot about the reaction Sirius, Remus, Kingsley, and Amanda had had in that meeting when he revealed that he could talk to snakes himself. Slytherin wasn’t exactly well liked in the magical world, his name and his House associated with evil; that Parseltongue is also a known Dark talent really only made things worse. So: snakes. There _are_ an awful lot of them dotted here and there throughout the castle, especially in the dungeons where Slytherin’s influence is strong: carvings and paintings, bits of decoration and embellishment on the walls and railings of the staircases that led down here and in the corridors surrounding the common room. Harry’d even talked to the snake portrait above the fireplace in the common room itself.

This, then, has to be a part of Slytherin’s legacy, and a marker of his line. But the books didn’t really mention other known Parselmouths. It isn’t a common gift, apparently, even in lines that had it very strongly like Slytherin’s. And Slytherin’s line itself vanishes quickly into the mists of time after Slytherin himself—the books say that he’d had a son, but that both of them had gone to the continent after Slytherin’s falling out with the other Founders and when the line returned to Britain, the only remaining heir was a woman, so the blood died out in the male line several hundred years ago… and at that point, everyone had lost interest, of course. The books on Slytherin and his line stop after that point: they mention that Graciela Slytherin had married into the House of Gaunt, and that was it. _Thereafter the House of Slytherin was extinct in the male line_ , one book says, _and so perished the legacy of Britain’s greatest proclaimed villain… or its greatest would-be protector._

After he reads that, Harry has to take a break and give himself a breather. The magical world’s strange prejudices and ideas about blood and descent are so _frustrating_ sometimes. Harry wasn’t exactly a stellar student in primary, but he remembers some science classes and teachers talking about how you could inherit things from your father _and_ your mother in equal parts. But they tracked Families and Houses, and if one was absorbed into the other, it’s like they assumed that all those inherited gifts would just… vanish along with the name.

Harry himself is a case for the fact that it just doesn’t _work_ like that, though. His Indian ancestors had lost whatever name they’d had and become part of the House of Potter along the way, but their gift, the Parseltongue he’d inherited, it hadn’t gone away. It had just been incorporated into the greater pool of everything that made up his history and his magic, all of everything he’d gotten from his parents.

But that doesn’t matter to anyone else in the magical world, or at least not to any of the authors of any of the books that he’s been reading. What matters is the continuity of the House and its name, and that was lost ages ago. Knowing it’ll probably be fruitless, because he’s had a million lessons on prominent pureblood families at this point and never even heard the name, he does _try_ to look up the Gaunts, and he even manages to find _something._ Not that it’s much, but the Gaunt family name appears on the list of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, which Sirius had told Harry was complete poppycock. The list was flawed even in its accounting of lineage, and moreover excluded a number of other known pureblood Houses, including the Potters—the House of Harry’s own birth, Sirius had told him, had been as pureblood as they came right up until his dad’s marriage to his mum.

So that’s… useless. The Gaunts existed and were known for a good long time, but who knows what branch of the family it was that survived—Harry fails to find a family tree in the library. He’ll probably have to check the Black library, which had a much larger collection of magical lineages in its records, if he wants to find that. That means there’s no way for him to know that if the branch that Graciela Slytherin had married into had survived, if her _blood_ survived. If it hadn’t, then the Parseltongue had to have come from somewhere else, and if it had… where were the Gaunts now? Because they might have made Nott’s list back in the 1930s, but Harry’s never heard the name mentioned in the 1990s, and that means he has no way to figure out which of their descendants might have ended up at Hogwarts and gone about opening the Chamber of Secrets in the 1940s, and who therefore might still be alive to tell him how to find the damned thing, or whose existence at least would give him a new avenue of research.

There’s still the suspicion, at least, about Tom Riddle. Tom Riddle who might be Voldemort. That sliver of suspicion, that the person who owned the diary is the person who opened the Chamber is the person who gave him the task, is enough to keep him working right up until Halloween, although he more than once wants to throw the terrible, prejudiced books he’s stuck reading across the room.

On the morning of October 31st, an overcast but dry Sunday, Harry finds himself sitting once more in the common room, doing homework absently while he turns all the pieces of the puzzle he’s managed to gather over in his head. There’s _something_ there, he knows—he just can’t seem to put it together.

He groans under his breath, staring down at his History of Magic text. _This is where I could really use Hermione,_ he thinks to himself. _She’d have this all put together in an instant—but I can’t_.

“Binns giving you trouble?” someone says, and then Gemma drops into a chair at Harry’s side. “More Goblin Wars, I imagine?”

“Something like that,” Harry says, staring blearily down at his text. He’s honestly not sure what he’s supposed to be reading about. “D’you think if I just… researched something interesting and turned in an essay on that, he would notice?”

Gemma considers that and then shrugs meditatively. “It probably wouldn’t hurt to try.”

“… Yeah.” Any of his research on the Heir of Slytherin would probably read more like fiction at this point, but maybe writing it down would help him put it all in line. Ugh.

“Though somehow, Harry, I think you’ve got more on your mind than a boring assignment,” Gemma says, and when he looks up at her she’s got that incisive look on her face, the one that never fails to make him nervous.

He shifts a little in his chair. “It… I—”

“You know you can tell me anything.” Her voice is hushed.

“I know,” Harry says, and looks away. Then he runs a hand through his hair, agitated, and says, “It’s Halloween.”

There’s a brief silence, and then she says, “Ah,” very gently. “I’m sorry, Harry.”

“No, it’s—it’s okay. I mean, it’s not _okay_. But… I don’t remember them.” Harry keeps his eyes down, because it’s true, he _does_ miss his parents, and he knows he’d probably have spent the night thinking of them, and will probably dream about them… but right now, he’s using them. He thinks the curdling guilt and disgust he feels for himself would probably show on his face if he had to look Gemma in the eye right now.

“You’re allowed to miss them,” she says, ignorant of the turmoil in Harry’s head. She puts her hand on his shoulder, soft, an attempt at comfort that he doesn’t deserve. To her, he’s just a kid—an influential kid, sure, but still just a third year and one of her many Slytherin ducklings. “Even if you never knew them, you can feel sad for their loss.”

“I know.” Harry rubs the back of his neck, dislodges Gemma’s hand, and pulls away. A bit hastily, he gathers his books, and says, “I think I’m going to… go somewhere.”

She just sighs, and when he finally manages to look at her face again, she looks compassionate. “If you go fly, take someone with you? Just in case something happens. I think Cassius is free; he and Rhea were going out to the grounds, I think, to enjoy our last bit of dry weather.”

“Sure,” Harry says dully, though really, flying _is_ a good idea—it’ll clear his head. But he wants to be alone.

He does go back to his dorm and get his broom and his practice Snitch, and he waves at Gemma on his way back out through the common room. But he doesn’t go find Warrington and Rhea—Rhea Levidis, a pureblood girl a year Harry’s senior, who Harry vaguely thinks might be dating Warrington—on the grounds. He just heads straight to the Quidditch pitch. He pulls on his flying gloves, mounts, and looses the Snitch, then wastes a content hour or two chasing it around, practicing dives and loops and wicked-fast spirals until all he’s thinking about is the burn in his wrists and his thighs from gripping his broom, the pull of his shoulder from reaching for the tiny golden ball, and the cold of the wind in his face.

It’s not until he lands that he becomes aware that someone has come to watch him. Marcus Flint is standing to one side of the pitch, and offers a few slow claps when Harry’s feet set back on the ground. He ambles over in his usual slow, purposeful way as Harry tucks the Snitch away and tugs his gloves off.

“Potter,” Flint says, once he’s close. “Some tidy flying.”

“Thanks,” Harry says, a little wary. “No Quidditch this year, so…”

“Good to keep in practice,” Flint says with a brisk nod. “Potter—”

“Is this about—”

“Shut up,” Flint says, his tone abruptly harsh.

“Right.” Harry ducks his head. Of course it’s about Voldemort and the Death Eaters. “Sorry, Flint.”

“ _Are_ you?” Flint shakes his head. “I doubt you’re sorry enough, Potter.”

“Do you think you’re going to be the one to teach me some contrition, Flint?” Harry asks, letting his own voice go harsh to match the way Flint is suddenly soft. “Because I think we both know that there are _other_ people who will want that pleasure, should it become necessary. Which it won’t. I’m not an idiot.”

Flint stares him down, his face hard. He’s studying Harry, testing him, and Harry meets his eyes squarely. Last year he’d been intimidated a bit by Flint, by his dark, deep-set eyes and the harshness of his face; he’s not handsome, and he’s tall. Taller, now, and a year too old. He has plenty on his side. But Harry’s faced scarier than him by now, and come out… scarred, maybe, but not broken.

Finally, Flint says, “No. But we named you right, Potter; you’re a lion in snake’s clothes. Make sure that your attempt at bravery doesn’t end with your pelt hanging on someone’s wall—you’d make a pretty trophy.”

Then, with that disturbing statement, Flint turns and walks off. Only once he’s entirely gone from Harry’s sight does Harry let himself shiver, troubled. He’s not sure what Flint thinks he knows, but he’s got information about Harry, and he’s in a position to learn plenty more if Harry slips up. It’s a reminder to be doubly careful about what he tells anyone, what he does, how he responds—lion in snake’s clothing he might be, but he’s got to wear that snake skin as if it never belonged to anyone else.

That thought sticks in his head the rest of the day, as he returns to the common room to oil his broom and put it away. Blaise and Theo have returned from wherever they’d been in the morning—the library, probably—so Harry hangs out with them, talking about homework and the possibility of some Quidditch pickup games. Umbridge’s decree bans any student clubs or teams, but doesn’t strictly ban one-off games, which Theo says some of the other Quidditch enthusiasts in the school are discussing. Harry chimes in with enthusiasm at the prospect—it would be nice to play again, even if it means not playing with his usual teammates.

The afternoon wears on, and the Halloween Feast approaches. The castle smells of cinnamon and nutmeg and roasting pumpkin as it always does, and the smell has crept down into the dungeons, so that by the time dinner arrives Harry and his dormmates’ stomaches are all rumbling. They head together in an eager clump toward the Great Hall, and take great pleasure in stuffing themselves on roast beef and fried pumpkin and squash soup, chicken and wild rice, seasonal vegetables in delicious sauces, and then afterward they eat pumpkin pie until they’re all groaning and complaining of stomach aches. It’s the best kind of discomfort, in Harry’s opinion. Much better than the ache of hunger.

They all stumble back to the dorm in high spirits, and on the way through the common room Harry’s eye catches on the portrait of the snake hanging above the mantel—it nods at him, and he nods back. _There’s_ _an idea_ , he thinks to himself, and resolves to go out looking for other snakes in the castle to talk to and ask questions of about the Chamber, if he can manage to get away from other people. Maybe after curfew…

It’s a good, productive thought, one that carries him through getting ready for bed and his before-sleep meditation in a good mood. He doesn’t bother to shore up his Occlumency, knowing even as he leaves the door to his inner Hogwarts open that he’ll probably dream. And dream he does, wandering through mist-filled halls that echo with distant sibilant speech, too faint for him to make out the words. He chases the whispers but never quite manages to catch up; every time he turns a corner, the voice has gone ahead into the indistinct distance. He’s never sure what he expects to find when he runs through the halls, his breath coming in pants, and turns blind corners or passes though shadowed doorways, whether it will be a blessing or a terror. He never finds either.

The trouble with Occlumency, Harry muses the next morning when he wakes from that dream, is that though he rarely dreams, he now always remembers it when he does. At least Blaise and Theo respect the quiet, contemplative mood he’s in as they move through their morning ablutions together, moving around one another and in and out of their bathroom in a pattern now well-practiced. Harry’s a little lost in his own head, paying no attention to their quiet conversation, and he leaves the dorm first, heading straight for the Great Hall. He’s settled with a cup of tea and a piece of toast by the time most of the rest of the student body has arrived, and is watching a little absent-mindedly for the post—he’s expecting a letter from Sirius.

Hedwig does arrive with all the rest when the owls do come swirling in on a chill breeze, but she’s not clutching a letter, only Harry’s copy of the Daily Prophet—he personally would prefer not to waste the money, but Sirius pays for his subscription so that he’ll be “up to date” on, if not always the most _substantial_ news, at least what the rest of the magical world _thinks_ is important. He sets the paper aside for a minute to stroke Hedwig’s silky feathers and feed her a sausage, deciding that it can wait a moment, when a soft commotion begins to sweep over the hall. Harry glances up, sees heads bent over papers, friends crowding around friends and starting to whisper at every table, and sighs.

When he unrolls his own paper, though, he finds that it’s no stupid sensationalist story that has all the students in a flutter. The half-page photo on the front page is of a dark fortress island surrounded by stormy seas, ragged specks of black floating above it against burgeoning clouds, threatening even in greyscale. One wall of the fortress looks damaged even in the distant photo, smoke streaming out from it.

The headline says, _Attack on Azkaban! History’s First Breakout: Death Eaters Freed En Masse!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> harry, this chapter:   
> 


	7. Serpentine Philosophy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to everyone who hates Dumbledore, this chapter will probably make you hate him more, or at least keep that fire burning.
> 
> (For the record, every comment that I get that contains "I hate Dumbledore" or "fuck Dumbledore" feeds my soul. He's complex character and he's not EVIL but he definitely bigtime fucking sucks!!!)
> 
> Also this chapter is Big Foreshadowing Minutes in several ways and I hope y'all pick up on some stuff and come yell at me about it in the comments if you do!

Neither Death Eaters nor high water would be enough, of course, to convince Dolores Umbridge to cancel class, or even just to take it easy on everyone for a day. Instead Harry walks into Defence on the afternoon of November 1st and has only a few seconds to brace himself once he’s sat down before she says, “There will not be a single mention in my hearing of this purported _jailbreak_ , and I will not be taking questions, _am I understood_?”

Harry grits his teeth. She’s looking right at him, because by now she surely knows how badly he wants to argue. “Understood,” he adds to the chorus, when it comes, and she nods sharply and turns toward the chalkboard to begin her lesson. It’s a bit of a surprise, but then she’s probably as busy trying to figure out how to keep control and continue to press her claim that Voldemort isn’t back in the face of this new news. From what she’s just said, Harry suspects she’ll be attempting to insist that until there’s proof that it was a targeted jailbreak for Voldemort’s followers, there’s no connection—which is bullshit, of course.

Truthfully, she hasn’t got a leg to stand on, but she has to stick to her party line or she loses all her authority. Harry knows it and she knows it and everyone in the school knows it. Being High Inquisitor doesn’t mean anything if the Ministry doesn’t have any real power, and they definitely don’t have real power if they’ve been lying all summer about Voldemort and letting him run around breaking his followers out of prison to boot. But she’s going to continue to claim it, and no one else seems willing to tell her to her face that she’s wrong.

Fine. Harry will carry that weight too, because spying for the Dark Lord (or _on_ the Dark Lord, or both) or not, he’s not going to let anyone call him and his—Sirius, a liar. But for now, today, he’s going to let it go. He’s got other things to worry about.

Like the fact that _Voldemort broke his followers out of prison_. The names of some of those freed had been listed in the article, and among them had been Bellatrix Lestrange.

Even reading the name, seeing it there in stark black and white, printed impersonally in the _Prophet_ for all to read… it’s enough to make Harry’s blood boil. She and her husband and his brother, as well as Barty Crouch Junior, had been the ones to torture his parents into husks of themselves. She’s one of the most notoriously sadistic Death Eaters, too—Harry has read the modern histories as well as the ancient ones, and her name was there. So he knows. Even though Harry hasn’t met her, hasn’t seen court transcripts or news articles about her, he knows that she must have enjoyed it.

He wants to kill her, almost as badly as he wants to kill Pettigrew. It’s a vicious, angry thought, one that would probably make Sirius give him a sad look and one of those protective hugs, but Sirius isn’t here right now. Harry can’t imagine actually doing it, can’t think past the rage to imagine what it would be like, what he’d do if she actually were standing in front of him… but hatred tastes like ash in the back of his throat. She’s free now, running back to her Dark Lord’s side, while his parents are still imprisoned in the cage that is St. Mungo’s, and the cage of their own minds. She doesn’t deserve freedom. She doesn’t deserve _anything_.

In Harry’s hand, his quill snaps, ink spraying across the parchment that he’d been neglecting to take notes on. Up at the chalkboard, where she’d been lecturing about something pointless, Umbridge whips her head around and glares at him.

“Potter!” she screeches. “Detention with me this evening for disrupting class!”

Harry clenches his left hand hard, his knuckles going white. From the way her face changes from fury to satisfaction, he can tell she sees it. “Yes, professor,” he grits out through his teeth.

“And tomorrow evening, too, for your disrespectful tone.” Then she nods, satisfied, and begins to talk again as if she’d never interrupted herself.

Harry just ducks his head. At least she prefers to torture him privately, rather than taking points—he can get in trouble with her all he wants that way without earning the formidable ire of his House.

For the sake of not drawing any more attention to himself, Harry focuses as hard as he can on taking notes for the rest of class, and then ducks away from any company as quickly as he can afterward. They don’t have any more class before dinner today, but he thinks he’ll skip the meal, too—he wants to be alone, to think. So he runs back to his dorm, swaps his bookbag for his Cloak and the Map, and then ducks out again before anyone can stop him and ask what’s wrong, or try to talk to him about the jailbreak.

It takes nearly an hour of walking quiet and unseen through the far empty halls of Hogwarts’s less-travelled areas before Harry feels like he has his head on straight again, but once he’s found his peace he consults the map, finds an empty classroom, and closes the door behind himself. It’s silent and dusty inside, not a room he’s used before, but there are a few chairs stacked against a wall and he manages to find one that hasn’t decayed. He sets it up beside the window and sits, staring out at the mist crawling across the grounds, the Forbidden Forest visible in the distance.

The thing that’s really bothering him is that if he were any use at all as a spy, he might have known about this. But he’s _not_. Dumbledore asked him to become a spy—or, well, sort of. The truth is, Dumbledore hasn’t really asked him or told him anything. All he knows is that he’s lying to everyone, and so far not for any good reason. He doesn’t have any important information, just this stupid impossible job that Voldemort had given him to hide an old book in a probably-mythical room, and even if he _did_ , Dumbledore hasn’t told him how to pass that information on.

Probably Snape has been reporting, Harry decides, turning his gaze up to the roiling grey clouds overhead, signs that a storm is coming. Snape has seen everything Harry has done so far, and Harry is pretty sure he’s playing some sort of double agent. Harry’s gut says that Snape is at best loyal only to himself, and at worst definitely a Death Eater, but he’s managed to fool Dumbledore _somehow_ or else he wouldn’t be a teacher. So he’s probably telling Dumbledore _something_ about what Harry has been doing.

Or maybe Dumbledore just… doesn’t care. Harry scrubs a hand over his face, almost dislodging his glasses, as that thought passes through his mind. But that’s not true. Dumbledore is the Headmaster, and even if he’s not perfect, he wants the best for everyone. He wants to see Voldemort stopped, and that’s the same thing Harry wants—he’d even given Harry the option to really help with stopping him, which… maybe it would have been safer, happier, _easier_ if Harry had let Sirius protect him like he promised, but then he wouldn’t have been able to help. So, no: Dumbledore cares, just not in the smothering way that Sirius does. The Headmaster had given Harry the freedom to choose this path, and Harry isn’t going to blame someone else for the choice he’d made.

Just… if only he knew what Dumbledore _wants_. He’d asked for help in the letter he’d sent at the end of last year, but he’d never heard back—maybe because the mail wasn’t secure? Or… he doesn’t know. He just doesn’t _know_.

Harry sighs, frustrated, and looks again out through the window, trying to capture a little bit of the calm of the autumn stillness. Absently, one of his hands drifts up to clutch the lily pendant he still wears around his neck, and the dig of the metal into his palm reminds him suddenly of why he’s doing this. Maybe he’s confused and frightened, but that’s fine—that doesn’t matter. What matters is that Voldemort needs to be defeated. So he’ll just… keep doing what he’s doing for now. Soon, he’ll be in a position where he’ll be able to know things before they happen, like about this jailbreak, and he’ll be able to help stop them. Or… who knows, maybe Voldemort has some larger plan to do with the Chamber of Secrets, and what Harry’s doing now is going to be useful, and he just doesn’t know it yet.

That kind of foresight really isn’t his specialty, though. He’s not a strategist, not like Ron, and he’s not a very good theorist, like Hermione. But at least he can keep his head. He can stay steady on his course.

There isn’t much to be done about the jailbreak, not while he’s still at Hogwarts, but he _can_ find the bloody Chamber of Secrets, and he _will._ With that thought in mind, Harry lets go of his pendant, slips out of the silent classroom, and goes looking for a snake to talk to.

Once he starts, he finds that there are actually a _lot_ of snakes in Hogwarts. Well, painted ones, anyway—most often they hang at the edges of other portraits, or lie on tables. There aren’t many on their own, and for the sake of avoiding the portrait gossip that’s sure to reach unfriendly ears, Harry only talks to the ones that are alone in a portrait frame, decently out of earshot of other paintings.

Fortunately, everyone’s currently at dinner, so he’s able to hold Parseltongue conversations in the middle of the halls with impunity. Not that it does him many favours—most of the snakes he talks to aren’t very helpful. Many of them never leave their portraits, preferring to remain in their designated beam of painted sunlight and bask, as is their nature; they’re really very snooty, too. But on the third floor, not far from the corridor where Fluffy once lived, Harry does meet _one_ friendly serpent. Its painting looks like it might have once contained a human figure as well, but the high-backed chair portrayed there is empty, the tall wooden staff leaning against it abandoned, and the snake has been left alone to drape over the back of the chair and coil endlessly around and around against the velvet.

It turns its head to regard Harry as he approaches, its yellow eyes fixed on him; they’re strangely hazy, and he wonders if it might be blind. “ _Hello_ ,” he hisses to it as he steps closer, just in case it can’t see him.

The snake’s head recoils a little, and Harry can see now that it’s shifted a bit that there are small, strange spines growing from its head. Some sort of magical breed? “ _Hello, Speaker_ ,” it says in return. “ _What a pleasant surprise_.”

“ _No one has talked to you in a while, huh?”_

“ _Not in a very long time, no_ ,” it says. “ _The last one had no interest in us, the relics; before him there was a long quiet season—to my senses, anyway._ ”

 _“The last one?_ ” Harry asks, his attention caught.

“ _There was a Speaker not so very long before you_ ,” the snake says, bobbing its head, as if nodding. “ _Arrogant. They often are, though.”_

“ _That’s interesting_ ,” Harry says. “ _Do you remember his name?_ ”

The snake shakes its head—the gesture is so clear, so strangely humanlike. It must have had a human companion at some point, Harry decides, to learn those gestures. “ _He never told us his name in our shared tongue, and I could not have picked out one particular bratling’s name from amongst your human babble. Some other may know, though._ ”

“ _Do you talk to one another? The painted snakes in the castle, I mean—I’ve talked to the one in the Slytherin common room, too,_ ” Harry says.

“ _Sometimes,_ ” the snake says. “ _More rarely as the seasons have grown long and cold for us. But I know the one of which you speak. He is clever.”_

 _“He has a tongue as sharp as his fangs,”_ Harry offers, and laughs a little. The snake almost seems to join him, letting out a long rattling hiss without any words in it.

“ _Beware giving_ him _that compliment, hatchling,_ ” the snake says, “ _or prepare to see a snake’s skull swell to bursting.”_

 _“I’ll keep that in mind_ ,” Harry says. “ _You seem quite clever yourself._ ” Especially compared to the other portrait-snakes Harry had spoken too, which seemed closer to their animal natures.

Another low hiss without words, though the affirmation in it rings clear to Harry’s ears. _“I once spoke long with Speakers such as yourself. Their magic nurtured my mind, as did their words.”_

_“So you had a human master?”_

_“A human friend,”_ the snake says. It’s not… sadness, exactly, that Harry can hear in that voice—maybe it doesn’t feel quite the same way he does. But there’s something there. “ _Long ago.”_

 _“How long?”_ Harry asks. “ _I’m seeking knowledge of history—of Speakers’ history here in the castle. Maybe you can help me.”_

 _“Maybe_ ,” the snake says. “ _But my sense of the seasons is not clear. All I can say is, long.”_

_“Have you heard of the Chamber of Secrets?”_

There’s a brief pause. “ _Something, perhaps,”_ the snake says. “ _You seek Slytherin’s legacy, Speaker?”_

 _“Something like that.”_ Harry shrugs. _“I… have a secret, too. It seems like a good place to hide it.”_

 _“Hm.”_ The snake goes quiet for a long moment, then as if on a sigh breathes out a quiet hiss, long and soft. “ _I cannot tell you the location of the Chamber, Speaker. But I can say that it is good that you Speak, for you would never find it if you did not.”_

 _“Thank you,”_ Harry says, and he dips a shallow bow to the painting. It’s not that he didn’t already suspect—the Heir of Slytherin is the only one able to find the Chamber, and it made sense, therefore, that one would need to be a Parselmouth. It’s still good to know for sure. “ _Is there any other wisdom you would offer me, uh—sorry, do you have a name?”_

Another of those rattling, laughing hisses. “ _I do, Speaker, but let us call it_ my _secret. If you find the Chamber, come back, and you will have my name.”_

 _“Alright,”_ Harry says. “ _Thank you, then, serpent.”_ The word “serpent” in Parseltongue feels like it could be heard as “kin”, too, Harry thinks. Interesting. “ _Um, first question again, then. Do you have any other wisdom for me?”_

The serpent bobs its head. “ _I like you, Speaker. So I will tell you this: when you enter the Chamber, bring with you tribute for the Serpent Lord, and you might just survive.”_

Harry shivers, nods, and bows again, deeper this time. So, maybe Slytherin’s legendary monster _is_ real. “ _Thank you. We will Speak again, serpent._ ”

“ _I believe we shall, Speaker._ ” Then the snake tucks its spiny head beneath its coils and seems to go to sleep, conversation apparently over.

Huh. Well, Harry thinks, turning back toward the dungeons and the common room, which is surely beginning to fill again as people finish dinner. Interesting indeed—and useful. He’s still left with the problem of finding the Chamber. Now, though, he knows for certain that it exists, that his gift of Parseltongue will allow him access… and that one final trial waits for him within.

* * *

The next morning, Harry's breakfast is interrupted by the arrival of a note which appears in a puff of smoke and promptly falls into his eggs. Once he's extracted it and brushed off the clinging bits of scramble, he unfolds it to find written in tidy, half-familiar handwriting: _Mr. Potter, I request your presence after dinner this evening at 7:30pm in my office. I have excused you preemptively from your detention with Madame Umbridge, never fear. Yours, Headmaster Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. p.s. I currently favour the ginger snap._

Harry tucks away the note, and when Theo gives him a sideways glance, he says, "The Headmaster wants to see me."

"Oh," Theo says, and looks down at the bandages on Harry's left hand. "Do you think it's about _her_?"

Harry shrugs. "Maybe."

"You have been getting it worse than most of us," Blaise says. "You might consider trying to keep your head down, Harry."

"Oh, I've considered it plenty," Harry says, drawing a laugh from them both. "She just won't cooperate."

"You do take her bait more than you need to," Theo points out. "She knows how to rile you up."

"Yeah," Harry says, "that's true. But if yesterday's class is anything to go by, she'll find some reason to punish me even if I _don't_ take the bait. Really, I don't get why she's got it out for me so bad."

"She just doesn't like anyone who's willing to stand up to her," Theo says. "I know her type."

Harry nods—he knows, too. "I s'pose that's true. But she doesn't go after Cedric Diggory half as much, and he's not exactly quiet about thinking she's a hag." Not that Diggory would ever put it in such terms, but he's intervened a number of times between Umbridge and younger students, and has no problems standing up to her any more than Harry does—it’s what got him banned from Quidditch and all the teams disbanded. But he’s never earned one of those detentions; Harry’s never seen him walking around with a bandage on his hand.

"His father does work for the Ministry," Blaise says. "She may be avoiding making enemies."

"I'm Heir Black!" Harry says, incredulous.

"She doesn't care about the power of the Wizengamot," Theo says matter-of-factly. "She works directly for the Minister, and she's one of this new generation of paper-pushers who think that being the administration makes the Minister a god—but of course he isn't. He's definitely got more power than the seat _used_ to hold, that's true, but only because he's seen Wizengamot members into high positions within the Ministry, so the power has shifted that way. Things used to be different, you know."

"I know," Harry says, because he does know now. The power of the Wizengamot _is_ diminished—the Peers certainly still have a lot of personal privilege and a certain amount of sway, as well as the ability to pass or stymie law, but it's difficult to get anything done with the Ministry pitted against you, as Sirius's difficulties this summer had proven. The Ministry controls the _Prophet_ , the DMLE, and magical Britain's diplomatic affairs, which are really the three things that shape the magical world in the modern age, more than any amount of lawmaking or court judgement. The Peers of the Wizengamot aren't like feudal lords any more, with the ability to raise an army from their vassal Houses and Families and make their will be done. It's Voldemort who wants a return to that, and ironically, the Ministry is going to hand it right to him if they don't stop trying to cling to their crumbling control and do something. Really, they should be supporting Lords like Sirius, who actually make good arguments in the Wizengamot and who get out and _do_ things, and don't just depend on the weight of wealth and empty reputation to get things done. Unfortunately, him doing that makes them look bad.

But then, the whole system is corrupt, isn't it? Harry sighs. "She's just a perfect example of everything that's wrong in the magical world, really."

"You're right there," Blaise says. "You know she's a half blood?" At Harry's sharp look, he puts up his hands and continues, "I just meant that it makes her a hypocrite as well as a bigot. She's not so very loud about hating muggles, but—"

"It's there if you pay attention," Theo agrees, nodding. "I've heard it."

Harry frowns. He hasn't really noticed it, but he's also not used to some of the silent signals that exist in the magical world, the sly references that people make when they're prejudiced. He knows muggle ones better, really, from years of listening to the Dursleys make sly, snide comments about people with Harry's skin tone, or about gay people on the telly. Still, he can believe it.

"Anyway," Blaise says, waving a hand. "All that to say, you really should either stand up to her properly or step off, Harry."

"'Stand up to her properly'?" Harry asks, raising an eyebrow. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You could write Lord Black," Blaise says. "He'd be down here in a moment and she'd be out on her arse."

Harry's lips twist—it might be true. But then... "Sirius has a lot else to worry about this year. In case, you know, you'd somehow missed the news."

Blaise and Theo exchange a look. "Hunting—hunting Death Eaters," Theo says, looking anxious even to have said the words, "or not, he's still your guardian. He'd make the time."

"I know," Harry says. He talked to Sirius via the mirror last night, and he’d seemed worried, but relieved that Harry was—supposedly—safe at Hogwarts. Harry’s not going to ruin that relief. “But I can handle this on my own. No half-baked bully has ever stopped me getting up before, no matter how many times they try to kick me down—I'm not going to let her be the first. I don't need Sirius's help for that."

"Maybe not, but..." Blaise trails off and sighs at the mulish look on Harry's face. "Fine. Whatever, Harry. But when he's furious at you for keeping secrets, don't say I didn't tell you so."

"He can be mad all he wants," Harry says firmly. "What's going on out there is more important than this." He gestures at his bandaged hand to illustrate. "He might be mad at first, but he'll see that I was doing what was necessary—we have to have our priorities. This is war."

Another exchanged glance. The two of them still have their secret, silent language, but Harry can now read better the exasperation in both their faces—and the fear lurking just behind.

"I suppose it is," Theo says after a moment. "Just... be careful, alright, Harry?"

Harry looks at them both, watches them watch him, and then sighs. "I'm trying," he offers. It's not enough—not when he knows that they've noticed something strange going on with him. But it's all he has. "Listen—"

Blaise waves his hand again. That familiar, casually dismissive gesture becomes smoother, more practiced and more adult, all the time. When Harry had met him, it had felt a bit rude to be waved off that way; now it looks like an elegant affectation, and it's all the more effective.

"We both know that that Gryffindor heart of yours would rather be forthright with us, Harry," he says. "We understand the need for discretion, all the same. We’re all Slytherins here. Just promise you'll warn us if trouble is coming?"

Harry nods. "I will. Thanks, you two. I know I've been... distant."

"It's okay," Theo says quietly. "These are hard times, Harry, and though I can't say I understand what you're up to, I'm willing to trust you. For now, anyway."

The smile that lands on Harry's lips feels heavy with everything he can't say. "Fair enough."

The rest of the day, at least, passes normally—class, meals, homework, idle chatter and the regular daily effort of being a student. Arithmancy homework is bloody hard as it is, never mind if Harry stops paying attention in class, so he has to fix his mind on that even with everything else going on. It leaves Harry too little time to work up much anxiety about his meeting with Dumbledore, though over dinner he finds himself poking at his food, dwelling on the coming meeting. When he realizes what he's doing, he gives up and leaves early. He heads back to his dorm and retrieves Voldemort's diary—he's not sure it's a good idea to show it to Dumbledore, but probably best to have it, just in case. Then he sits on his bed and talks quietly to the Marauders for a little while, passing the time with stories of pranks. They toss out some ideas for ones Harry might pull himself, and he laughs and agrees, though he knows he won't do it.

Just before he leaves, as he's putting away the Map, it occurs to him that once he finds the Chamber of Secrets he might be able to add it to the Map. Only if the 'monster' within doesn't prove too dangerous for him to risk others finding it, of course, but... that would maybe be a fitting contribution of his own to the Map. Of course, he'd have to figure out how to do it—maybe Sirius or Remus would help? How to ask without telling them what he'd found and why, though...

Those thoughts accompany him back upstairs to the door of Dumbledore's office. "Ginger snap," he tells the gargoyle, a little hesitant, but it shifts promptly to expose the staircase, which has already begun to wind upwards. He steps onto the old stone stairs and they bring him upward, eventually depositing him just in front of the plain door to Dumbledore’s office, which swings open before he even has a chance to knock.

As always, there are about a thousand things in the Headmaster’s office to catch and hold attention; today Harry finds his eyes drawn to the cabinet against one wall, which is usually closed. Today it sits open, revealing a shallow stone basin with runes carved all around the outside. It’s tempting to go over and look, to see if he recognizes any of the symbols—he’s been greatly enjoying his Ancient Runes class this term, as well as the books he’d read on the subject over the summer, though he knows he’s still very much a beginner.

But the Headmaster is waiting, seated patiently behind his desk with his hands folded atop it and his blue eyes, as ever half-hidden behind his spectacles, fixed on Harry. So he turns that way and crosses the office, pausing before the desk, and he says, “You wanted to see me, sir?”

“Indeed. Have a seat, my boy.” Dumbledore picks up his wand—knotted and gnarled unvarnished dark wood of some kind, clearly worn with age and use—off the desk and waves it, transforming the chair in front of the desk from simple wood into a luxurious armchair. Harry sits on the edge of the chair, his knees pressed together, and waits for Dumbledore to speak.

“I imagine you’re wondering why I called you here, my boy,” Dumbledore says.

“I figured it had something to do with, uh,” Harry makes a vague gesture, “Voldemort. The Dark Lord.”

“Indeed.” Dumbledore’s mild expression turns a little harder, more serious around the edges. “Severus has kindly provided me with several updates on your meetings with Lord Voldemort.”

Harry nods—as he’d suspected. “One right at the beginning of the summer, and one just at start of term,” he confirms. “Do you want me to... report, or something?”

Dumbledore inclines his head. “I would be glad to hear anything you believe to be relevant.”

“Right.” Harry clears his throat. “Well, the solstice meeting was... I mean, I can tell you some of the names of the people there, but probably Professor Snape did that?”

“Yes. Including Marcus Flint—has he given you any difficulties?” Dumbledore asks.

“Not really,” Harry says. “I mean, it depends what you mean by ‘difficulties’. Flint isn’t easy to get along with, but he hasn’t threatened me at all or anything. I’m being careful.”

“That is good to hear,” Dumbledore says, and leans back in his seat. “I knew that you might have issues with him, but given his father’s position I was unable to deny his return to Hogwarts to repeat his seventh year. I am glad to hear that you are bearing up so admirably under the pressure. However, if you do find yourself struggling to manage your Housemates—or any other aspect of your complex situation—I hope you will feel comfortable enough to come to me for help.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry says, pauses, then adds, “Can I owl? Or should I contact you some other way?”

Dumbledore makes a considering noise. “You might go through your Head of House. Ask him to tell me you have requested a meeting, and I will summon you.”

Harry nods. “Yes, sir. Um, so, the September meeting then?”

“Yes please, my boy.”

“Well, he called me. Or, told Snape to bring me. He’s staying at Malfoy Manor, I think, because I saw Lord Malfoy there—he didn’t look very pleased to see me. Voldemort sent him away, though. Then he told Snape to keep an eye on the kids of the Death Eaters.” Harry shrugs. “You probably know that too.”

“Yes,” Dumbledore says. “Severus told me he was then also sent from the room. What happened then?”

“Um,” Harry looks down, not sure how to continue. He twists his hands together, then forces himself to let go and runs his fingers through his hair. “He told me that he’d decided what to do with me. He said he had a job for me.”

“A job?” Dumbledore’s tone is patient, his gentle prodding insistent and steady.

“Yeah,” Harry says, and looks up again, meets Dumbledore’s eyes. That much at least he can do without fear; if his Occlumency will stand up to Voldemort, it’ll stand up to Dumbledore. But there’s no brush against his shields. “He gave me a book—a journal—and told me to find the Chamber of Secrets and hide it there.”

“I see.” Dumbledore folds his hands together on his desk, and for a moment looks distant and pensive, and then he refocuses on Harry. “Do you have this journal with you, Harry?”

Harry nods and reaches for his satchel. He pulls out the diary and lays it on Dumbledore’s desk between them. Dumbledore picks up his wand once more and murmurs quietly, waving his wand over it in a complicated pattern; after a moment, the diary glows a deep bloody red.

“This is a dark artifact indeed,” Dumbledore says solemnly. He doesn’t touch the diary. “I would, if I were you, be very careful with it, my boy.”

“I have been,” Harry promises. Gingerly, he collects the diary and tucks it away once more. “I don’t know much about it—he told me I should write in it, but because it was him who told me, I’m thinking I probably shouldn’t.”

Dumbledore nods. “That seems prudent, my boy. Thank you for showing it to me. Have you been searching, then, for the Chamber of Secrets?”

“Yeah.” Harry shrugs. “Not having much luck.” He’s not going to relay the conversation he had with the snake portrait, not yet. He’s not sure Dumbledore knows he’s a Parselmouth, though Sirius might have told him. “Do you know anything about it, sir?”

“It was opened once before in my tenure here at Hogwarts,” Dumbledore says, “when I was still the teacher of Transfiguration. I will admit: I had my suspicions about the culprit even then, and knowing what I know of Tom Riddle’s later years, I feel vindicated in having suspected. But Headmaster Dippet,” he waves up at the wall of portraits behind him, toward the most recent one, which is of a narrow-faced man in a pointy hat, who is currently sleeping, “was convinced otherwise.”

“Right,” Harry says. “Tom Riddle—he’s…?”

“Voldemort,” Dumbledore confirms, with a nod. “Thomas Marvolo Riddle, once, a lonely and misfortunate orphan, yet to become powerful—I introduced him to the magical world myself, in fact, in 1938.”

Harry manages to keep the impertinent question that he wants to ask behind his teeth, but Dumbledore seems to sense it. “I do regret it,” he says. “Though I suspect that he would simply have visited his cruelties on innocents in the muggle world instead, if he had never come to Hogwarts.”

“He’s a wizard,” Harry says. “Even if he’s evil… it would’ve been wrong to keep him from coming to the world that he belonged in, wouldn’t it? If anything, leaving him in the muggle world would have been worse, because he’d have just felt like a freak his whole life, instead of just for the first few years of it.”

Dumbledore’s gaze is sharp, and he inclines his head forward, his eyebrows scrunching. “Is that how you felt, my boy, before you learned of magic?”

Harry shrugs. “Of course. Weird things happened to me all the time. I _was_ a freak—but at Hogwarts, I fit.”

There’s a pause, where Harry studies Dumbledore’s calm, inscrutable face, and then Dumbledore lets out a slow breath. “I am sorry, Harry, for your struggles growing up. I had hoped you would be safer and happier with your family, far from the difficulties of our tumultuous post-war world. But I was wrong.”

Harry blinks, surprised, and then swallows hard. He looks down at his hands again, which without his noticing have wound tightly together again in his lap. “I understand, sir,” he says. “You had your reasons.” Which isn’t the same as _I forgive you_ , and Harry thinks Dumbledore’s probably smart enough to know that, but he’s not going to lie. Not right now.

“Indeed,” Dumbledore says quietly. There’s another pause, longer this time, and then off to the side Fawkes makes a low crooning noise from his perch and Harry glances up that way, startled. The bird is watching them with one molten gold eye, and when he sees Harry looking he makes another soft sound, just on the edge of song. Harry glances back over at Dumbledore, and finds him smiling. “Well then,” he says. “Perhaps, for your sake, we should work out a system of check-ins, hm? Say, within a week should you find yourself summoned by Lord Voldemort, and as soon as possible should you glean information some other way—for example, from your friends in Slytherin House. And otherwise, once a month?”

Harry thinks about that, and then says, “Maybe every other month, sir? Otherwise it’ll seem too regular to really be excused.”

“Very astute,” Dumbledore says. “So: every other month, and the other times that I described. Does that sound good?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry says. “What if I don’t have anything to report?”

“That doesn’t matter, my boy,” Dumbledore says. “I am also interested to know how you are doing, of course; I’m concerned for you. You should know, if at any time you feel your position has become too precarious, we can pull you back and put an end to this all.”

“Okay,” Harry says, knowing already that he won’t ask for that. It’s not like his position can get any more precarious than it already is, really. “Is there anything in particular you want me to try to learn?”

Dumbledore shakes his head. “We don’t know yet what your place within Voldemort’s ranks will look like, should you gain one. Best to play it by ear, hm? Any information you gain is useful—your work, I suspect, will be invaluable in winning this war. Already we have more information than we did: about this diary of his, which may well be of some importance, if he wants it hidden in so obscure a location.”

“Okay,” Harry repeats. “Um, yes, sir.”

“Is there anything else, my boy?”

“No, sir.” Harry shifts, resettles his satchel in preparation for standing up. “Oh—actually… this isn’t about Voldemort, but… you know Umbridge really hates you, right?” She makes sniffy comments about Dumbledore’s leadership of the school in her classes from time to time, almost as blatant about her dismissal of Dumbledore than she is about Harry’s claims that Voldemort has returned.

“I am aware,” Dumbledore says. “However, I am also quite unworried. She may seek to oust me, Harry, but you will find that I will only truly have left this school when none here are loyal to me. Hogwarts _will_ remain protected.”

Which is to say, Harry thinks, even as he nods and says polite goodbyes to the Headmaster, that it would be up to those like Harry himself to keep the school safe should Dumbledore be forced out. Those who believe in fighting for what’s right, and protecting what really matters in the world. Not money or power, but places like Hogwarts, like _Dumbledore’s_ Hogwarts, where everyone can find a home, no matter who they are. Even Tom Riddle had once called Hogwarts home, Harry thinks, and Dumbledore hadn’t denied him a place here—no matter how much he might have wished he had. Umbridge’s Hogwarts would be a place where a lonely orphan would never be welcome; in her vision, anyone not a perfect, obedient pureblood is a freak without a place in the world.

Harry makes his way down the stairs from the Headmaster’s office and out through the corridors, back toward the dungeons, and he looks around at the sheltering walls of the castle as he walks. Sturdy, steady, home: _that_ is Hogwarts, not the twisted version Umbridge wants to create. As for Voldemort, he just wants to tear it down—to destroy Hogwarts and all the people within it, all the people who love it for what it is, and remake the world in his own image. Harry refuses to see either of those things happen, so he’ll fight. Whatever it takes.


	8. Invitations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beta called this chapter an "emotional rollercoaster" and they were right. Woops?

The first Saturday in November dawns bright, cold, and clear: a perfect day for Quidditch. Of course, there is no Quidditch, because Umbridge banned it, but… the thought is nice.

Harry finds himself standing in the Entrance Hall thinking about it, feeling a bit forlorn. He could go outside, go flying—Theo would probably come along, or Higgs or Warrington. It just feels a bit pointless, is all—but then, he doesn’t really want to go back to the Slytherin common room, either, and sit around and do yet more hopeless reading about the history of Hogwarts, or try to get some homework done, or… whatever. He sighs, looks out through the large main doors, propped open at the moment to let the fresh air in. He can see, distantly, some students sitting out on the lawn, chatting or maybe working.

“Potter?” someone says from behind him, and he turns to look.

It’s Cedric Diggory. He’s got his broom with him, and he’s dressed in Quidditch practice clothes, including a flying robe, still unbuttoned, worn over a skintight athletic top that displays the muscle in his chest and the breadth of his shoulders. Harry blinks, startled, and looks up to meet Diggory’s rich brown eyes. Diggory smiles, warm and charming, and says, “This is perfect!”

“Er,” says Harry, feeling awkward. “What? I mean, sorry—can I help you, Diggory?”

“Yes, actually,” Diggory says. “I was hoping for another Seeker. Would you like to come play some Quidditch?”

Harry blinks. “I thought we weren’t allowed?”

“Umbridge only said that the _teams_ were banned,” Diggory replies, still cheerful, though his smile shifts from mild and enthusiastic to something a bit more… mischievous. It’s not entirely unlike one of Sirius’s grins. “Nothing in the rules about a group of students just _happening_ to meet up on a nice day and do a bit of flying together.”

Harry snorts, unable to help himself. Clever—almost _Slytherin_ , really. “Alright,” he says. “I’ll fetch my broom.”

“I’ll wait for you,” Diggory says. “We’re not supposed to, ah, _happen_ to get together for another half-hour.”

Harry smiles, nods, and then darts off toward the common room. It’s a quick sprint down into the dungeons and through the halls; he knows the route better than he knows the back of his own hand, these days, and he still gets up to run in the mornings a few days a week, keeping in shape even without Padfoot to run with. The common room is partially occupied, a number of Slytherins hiding from the dungeon chill near the fire, or ensconced at a chessboard or with their books, but he slips past them all to get to his dorm and fetch his Quidditch gear.

Theo and Blaise are lounging on Blaise’s bed playing cards when he comes into the dorm, and he greets them quickly before changing into his Quidditch gear.

“Going flying, Harry?” Theo asks from the other side of the room.

“Yeah,” Harry says. “Diggory’s got a pickup game going, so I’m headed out to join.”

Theo makes an interested noise. “Maybe I’ll come watch.”

“If you want.” Harry shrugs, snags his broom, and turns to go. “I’m heading out now—it’s cold, so bundle up if you’re coming.” He’s got layers on himself, bracing for the icy wind at Quidditch altitude.

Theo is clambering off Blaise’s bed, ignoring Blaise’s irritated protests that they had been in the middle of a game, as Harry darts back out of the dorm. He’s determined to get back to the entrance hall and not keep Diggory waiting; he doesn’t know the handsome Hufflepuff all that well, but Harry doesn’t want to make him irritated or disappoint him.

“Going flying, Harry?” Warrington calls, as he makes his way back across the common room.

“Quidditch pickup game with Diggory and a few others!” he tosses over his shoulder, and then he’s gone, back out into the halls and on his way, picking up his feet and running. He’s a little out of breath by the time he emerges back out into the Entrance Hall, but Diggory is still there, looking out the door and up at the clear blue sky outside with a calm, patient air.

He turns when he hears Harry’s footsteps against the stones, and smiles widely once more, his cheeks a little flushed in the brisk air. “You didn’t need to run,” he says as Harry comes to his side.

Harry shrugs. “Didn’t want to make you wait. Shall we?”

“We shall,” Diggory says, and makes a gesture toward the door. “Onward, Heir Black.”

“Ugh,” Harry says, then grimaces. “I mean—sorry. Just Harry, please.”

Diggory laughs, the sound carrying as they emerge out into the open air of the grounds and begin to make their way to the Quidditch pitch. “Don’t apologize! I shouldn’t have joked. You’re a bit known for your dislike of politics, for all you’re quite good at them.”

Harry blushes at the compliment. “I get by, I suppose.”

Diggory glances at him, smiles, and says, “More than that. Anyway, you should really call me Cedric, if I’m going to call you Harry—I can practically _see_ you calling me ‘Diggory’ in your head.”

Harry ducks his head, a bit embarrassed. “Slytherin is big on formality.”

“Oh, I know—I’ve spent some time with Farley and her crowd lately. Interesting group, really.” Cedric shifts his broom to his other hand, a gesture that reads faux-casual to Harry, and shoots him another sideways glance. “You’re friends with her, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Harry says, more cautious. _Spending some time with Farley_ —Cedric is probably talking about Neville and Hermione’s defence club. A few weeks ago, Harry had told Farley about it as casually as he could, and he’s seen her and Hussain sneaking off with a group of others a few times, presumably for meetings. They’ve been subtle; he’s only noticed because he’s watching for it, and because he knows who else is involved and therefore whose simultaneous absences to mark. He’s done what he can to cover for them with those of their Housemates who would surely tell Umbridge: Malfoy and his cronies, Flint, even Warrington.

“You know—“ Cedric looks down at Harry again and cuts himself off. “I… well. She seems like a good sort.”

“She is,” Harry says. That much he’s sure of. “Farley’s got her head on straight.”

“Glad to know it’s not just me,” Cedric says, shifts his broom again, and falls silent.

It’s not an entirely comfortable silence, and Harry doesn’t have the social grace needed to broach it, so he stews in the awkwardness and his own feeling of regret. Cedric is warm and friendly and charming, charismatic in a way that makes him stand out not only among Hufflepuffs but among the students in general, and Harry wishes that he could be friends with him. He wants to be on the same side, to be among Cedric and Neville and Hermione and their club, with Gemma and the rest… but he can’t. He swallows down hard on the bitterness that the thought provokes, lets out a short breath, and then points ahead of them. “Look,” he says, because the Quidditch pitch is in view now and there are a few people up on their brooms already. “Looks like they’ve started without us.”

“Can’t blame them,” Cedric says with a laugh. “I’d like to be up there too!”

“You didn’t need to wait for me,” Harry points out.

“I wanted to.” Cedric glances down at him again. “Neville’s got nothing but good things to say about you, you know. Says you’re a good friend, and very talented.”

Harry looks down, away. “He would say that. He’s a nice person.”

“And he has good judgement, I think,” Cedric says. Then he sighs. “I was curious about you, Harry. Still am, I think, but… well. I’m not Farley, I don’t have her cutting instinct for people, not in the same way. Still, I think Neville isn’t wrong about you.”

“Maybe,” Harry says, and looks up to meet Cedric’s eyes. He wishes for a moment that he was capable of Dumbledore’s silent, wandless Legilimency, because he wants to know what Cedric sees when he looks at him. What he thinks he knows, just from their brief talk.

Cedric just nods, and they walk the rest of the way to the pitch quietly, though this time at least there’s no tension strung between them, awkwardness born of things unsaid.

It's a fairly diverse group that they join in the enclosure of the Quidditch pitch: students from third right up through seventh year. About half the group is Hufflepuff, with the remainder split fairly evenly between Ravenclaw and Gryffindor, including the Ravenclaw Quidditch captain, seventh year Ash Chadha. Harry is the only Slytherin present, and receives a few narrow looks from some of those gathered as he approaches, but his place by Cedric's side saves him from any harsh words or errant hexes.

"Right!" Cedric says as they get close. "Gather up, everyone, and call the rest down, will you?"

Immediately another Hufflepuff turns and waves down the three who are flying idle laps around the pitch; they turn the noses of their brooms and dart downward. As soon as they're on the ground—two more Hufflepuffs and a Ravenclaw, Harry notes—Cedric gathers everyone close. There's a little more than a dozen of them in total, more than enough for a quick game.

"Listen up," Cedric says, speaking quickly and quietly. He reaches into one of the pockets of his robe and pulls out a handful of galleons, to Harry's surprise. "Everyone take one of these."

Harry obeys, confused, and listens intently as Cedric continues, "Don't lose it, everyone. This is how we'll keep in touch and organize new games—I have a master coin and I'll set times for when we can get together, so that it doesn't look like we're organizing against Umbridge's rules."

Harry peers at the coin more closely and realized that, indeed: the markings on it aren't quite right. The characters around the rim are numbers forming a time and date, rather than the usual runes and year of mint.

"Nice," says one of the other Hufflepuffs—one of their team's beaters, Harry recognizes. "Got Granger—"

"Yeah," Cedric says, cutting him off sharply. The other boy blinks, then blushes. "Anyways, let's get going, we're probably going to get cut off by Umbridge and her cronies."

Cedric goes about deftly organizing teams while they all tuck away their false galleons. Granger, Harry thinks, can only be Hermione; he remembers asking her last year to try to find a way for them to communicate without tipping anyone off, just in case. Clearly she'd succeeded, and if he had it right, they were probably using these coins for their Defence club too—though maybe a separate set. Clever, really. He wishes he could tell her how impressed he is. Maybe Cedric would be willing to pass a message.

For now, Harry decides to focus on Quidditch. He and Cedric are the only Seekers present, so that's decided easily; the others divide up the positions among themselves with Cedric playing mediator, and soon enough they're all launching up into the air. Chadha had pulled out the chest with the Quidditch balls earlier, though they're playing with only one Bludger to reduce the risk, given their lack of any staff present in case of accident; they also have one more player than the fourteen necessary, so Cedric's talkative beater friend is playing fifth free-agent beater for whichever team seems convenient at the time. Cedric and Harry had made an agreement to play joint referee, given that they wouldn't have much to do until the Snitch appeared.

The game goes on for a while, Cedric using his more carrying voice to shout the score when the the Chasers managed, Harry keeping an eye out for fouls and the Snitch both. A few times he nearly darts after a glint of gold before realizing that the glint he’d seen was merely the cool winter sun catching Cedric’s honey-brown hair and highlighting it. After the second time, he gives himself a good shake and refocuses on the game, scolding himself for getting distracted. He’s not even sure why it’s happening—it hadn’t last year. But maybe something about the quality of the clean November sun…

At some point, Theo and Millicent appear in the stands, and Harry sweeps past on his broom to wave and them. Theo whoops, waving his arms and grinning; Millicent gives a more restrained wave. Then he turns his attention fully back to the game, knowing that he’ll have to keep on his toes—he’s a better Seeker than Cedric, but not by so much that he can just ignore what’s going on. Plus, though none of the other Houses are so willing to risk a penalty to foul other players as Slytherin, there are a few Ravenclaws on Cedric’s team and they can be sneaky.

They're playing for fun, not for any real competition, so the game goes on at a leisurely pace, people pausing from gameplay now and then to play games of chase around the pitch, and players show off their tricks; Harry makes a few dives just because he can. He and Cedric are both watching for the Snitch, and the Chasers pass the Quaffle around, and goals count steadily up, but it's enjoyable rather than tense. After about an hour, Cedric drifts over toward Harry on his broom and says, "I haven't been watching very closely for the Snitch, but I think we'd better start in earnest—if you haven't already, anyway."

"Alright," Harry says, aware of the same distant possibility that Umbridge and her lackeys could turn up any time to spoil their fun. "We'll try to wrap in the next half-hour, then?"

"Sounds good."

With that in mind, Harry sets himself more firmly to the task, paying less attention to refereeing and settling instead into his usual searching flight pattern, looping in an even figure eight high above the action of the other players. It's another ten minutes or so, and then he sees Cedric make an abrupt move leftward—at first he thinks to avoid the Bludger, but then he realizes that Cedric is still moving, darting further toward the goalposts and chasing a far-distant glinting spark of gold: the Snitch. Cedric is much closer than Harry and will probably get there first, but anything can happen, so Harry flattens himself to his broom and dives a dozen feet to collect as much speed as he can, racing toward Cedric. Around him, he can see and sense the other players going still, their play pausing as they wait for the outcome of the Seekers' duel; but Harry suspects he already knows.

Somewhat to his surprise, he does catch up with Cedric, who's had to dodge around several other players as well as the goal post, and has bled speed as the Snitch drew closer to the far wall of the pitch. Harry has no more interest than Cedric does in slamming into the wall face-first when there are no professors nearby to administer first aid, so he slows a little too as he gets close, but not as much. He's close enough to touch Cedric's back and can see the Snitch just in front of them when it suddenly darts upwards. Both of them go after it, and Harry tries to lay on more speed—but Cedric reaches out, and his few inches of extra reach are plenty to allow him to make a catch that Harry would have missed at the same distance.

"Got it!" Cedric crows, and shoots a shining triumphant grin over his shoulder that makes Harry's gut clench.

"Congrats!" Harry shouts back over the sound of the wind, and peels off, unable to stop his own grin. Across the pitch, Theo is waving his arms in their air; Harry suspects he's hollering, though he can't hear it from this distance.

The players all come together in the middle of the field and exchange handshakes somewhat at random, everyone smiling and patting one another on the back. Even Harry receives a few shoulder-pats from commiserating teammates, and Chadha tells him that he'd done well, better than Cho Chang, the Ravenclaw Seeker, would have done with such a gap between Seekers when the Snitch was spotted, and that she'd be happy to have him on her team the next time they played one of these games.

Cedric winks at everyone before they disperse, and grinning says, "Well, we'll play again when next we happen to have a nice day, I suppose! Don't forget your pocket change, lads and ladies. Thanks for the game!"

"You too, Cedric," Harry adds to the chorus of returned thanks and agreements, and then goes to meet Theo and Millicent, who've descended from the stands. The other players disperse too, though Chadha and Cedric stay to try to round up the Bludger and get the chest of balls put away.

"Good game, mate," Theo says, and pats Harry's back once he's within reach. "Some nice flying, as always. You really are a natural."

"Well, I try," Harry says. "Thanks for coming!"

"Of course," Millicent says. "No other Quidditch to watch this year, is there? Boring."

"Yeah, it's a shame," Harry agrees. "Honestly, I wonder what Cedric could have done to make Umbridge so angry—he's so nice."

"Cedric, huh," Millicent says.

Harry shrugs, suddenly a little awkward. "He offered. Like I said, he's nice."

"He's a Hufflepuff," Theo says with a dismissive shrug of his own. "Well, it was good luck you bumping into him. Who knows when this'll happen again?"

"Yeah," Harry says, and consciously does _not_ put his hand in his pocket to touch the enchanted Galleon. "Fingers crossed."

* * *

November draws on, and Harry tries to focus on homework—his research into the Chamber of Secrets has dried up, and Umbridge's increasingly strict rules about who's allowed to be where, when, and for what reason make it nigh impossible for Harry to spend any sort of leisure time anywhere. Even worse, he's reluctant even to spend time outside, where he could relax somewhere hidden away from the eyes of Umbridge and her minions—who now include Malfoy, of course—because after the Quidditch game with Cedric the weather takes a turn for the worse. It's not snowing yet, but it rains constantly for most of a week, and even after that it’s cold and overcast and miserable outside. He’ll endure it for the freedom of Hogsmeade weekends, but other than that, he’d much rather stay inside. It leaves him little to do but write slightly grumpy letters to Remus and talk on the mirror with Sirius, play chess with Warrington or Gemma, talk professional Quidditch scores with Theo, and study.

At least his grades reflect his increased focus. McGonagall even delivers a bit of praise to his effort to transform a pincushion into a hedgehog. Still, it's more than a little frustrating to be so stymied, especially after his conversation with Dumbledore. He knows that right now he's less than useless—in fact, he's a liability to his own safety and to his side of the war. He feels like he's just drifting along, not doing anything actually _helpful_ , and he doesn't have anywhere to go for help but the inside of his own head.

It's with these thoughts in his mind that he finds himself contemplating the diary itself when his hand brushes it at the bottom of his satchel while he's packing his bag before class one day, a week and change after the Quidditch game with Cedric. It's surely dangerous, or else Voldemort wouldn't have suggested he write in it; Harry suspects it's cursed in some way. And he could always get a blank, totally Muggle journal if he just wanted to get his own circling thoughts out on the page, but... something in him _wants_ to write in the diary. He's taken to carrying it around constantly, concerned that Theo or Blaise might discover it somehow in his things or Umbridge might find and confiscate it, and _then_ where would he be? And with each day that passes, he wonders more and more whether the item itself might hold the secrets to unlocking Voldemort's quest.

It's not impossible, at least. So he waits until Wednesday night after Astronomy, when Blaise and Theo are both certain to fall asleep quickly and deeply, and then sneaks out of the dorm under his Invisibility Cloak, the diary and a quill and ink bottle tucked into the pockets of his dressing-robe. He doesn't want to do this in the dorm where he could be discovered... or where his writing in the diary might unleash some harm on his unsuspecting roommates. So he sneaks up to the room that he and Neville and Hermione had used for study and strategizing last year, somewhere familiar and already set up with a dust-free table and chairs. In the thin pale light of a moon barely breaking through the clouds and shining through the room's tall windows, bolstered by the white glow of a _Lumos_ cast from the tip of his wand, he slides off his Cloak and sits down with the diary.

He opens it to the first page, cracks his ink bottle and dips his quill, and then sits staring at the blank pale expanse for several long minutes, wondering what he's doing. It's foolish, he knows. He could be killed, or bewitched in some way, and no one would even know it had happened. If he _is_ harmed, who knows whose possession the diary will end up in—probably Umbridge, and that would be a _disaster._ She'd recently put rules in place about what sorts of artifacts were permitted in the possession of students, banning all joke products from Zonko's as well as Rememberalls, Self-Inking Quills, and enchanted journals, daybooks, and notebooks of all kinds, because she claimed they helped students to cheat. Really, Harry thinks, she's just taking out some frustration on the Ravenclaws, who are the school's most frequent users of such things and deeply outraged. Luna had come to sit with Harry in the library just yesterday (very much without his asking her, but she couldn't be discouraged) and even _she_ had complained about it, in her roundabout way.

So, really, if Umbridge were to find this diary... well, Harry would be done for good, he suspects. He's not sure she has the power to expel him _yet_ , but she's certainly getting there; moreover, as High Inquisitor she has the power to impose any punishment she wants on him. Her detentions are already torturous—even the thought makes his hand, still carved open and wrapped in a bandage, twinge—and he's not sure he wants to test the limits of her imagination.

But... he needs the information. He _needs_ to find the Chamber of Secrets, and if he can do it before the winter hols, all the better; it'll be easier to get away then to meet with the Dark Lord, as he suspects he'll be called to do if he manages to complete his task. Once term resumes, it'll be much harder.

So he taps the gathering drip of ink off the end of his quill and puts it to the page of the diary. It feels a little girly and stupid, but for lack of any other ideas, he begins with _Dear diary_ , and then pauses, hesitant.

To his surprise, the letters, stark black on white even in the darkness, don't stay. Instead the ink seems almost to sink into the page and vanish—and then, a moment later, other letters appear in an unfamiliar handwriting.

 _Hello_ , the writing says. It lingers long enough for him to read, and then that message too vanishes.

Harry swallows hard and writes back, for lack of anything else to do. _Who's there?_

 _My name is Tom,_ the diary says. _What's yours?_

"Oh, shite," Harry says out loud, because he can and because he doesn't know what else to do. He'd known that this was Tom Riddle's diary, but he hadn't realized that it was his in the way the Marauder's Map belonged to Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs. Their essences, or a version of them, were preserved on that folded scrap of parchment in the way that it seems Tom Riddle has survived in the pages of his diary, impressed by magic, will, and dedicated attention. Which means that Harry now has access to Voldemort himself at age... whatever. Probably sixteen or seventeen, if the creation of the impression on this diary had taken the same length of time as the impressions on the Map.

 _My name's Harry_ , he writes. _It's nice to meet you, Tom._

 _You're very polite,_ Tom replies. _Are you a Hufflepuff, Harry?_

_No. I'm a Slytherin._

_Wonderful._ There's a pause. _I am as well. It's a wonderful House, isn't it?_

 _It certainly has its perks,_ Harry writes, debates with himself, and then decides to be honest. Or at least a version of honest. _But it's very political._

 _Oh, yes,_ Tom writes. His handwriting is a tidy and deliberate cursive, quite beautiful and clearly practiced, letters formed with wide loops and clean slanting straights; every i is dotted and every t is crossed promptly. _But there can be advantages in that, if you know how to take them._

 _I've been pretty successful,_ Harry writes. _Though I'm only in my third year. The older students are still much more influential._

_Your time will come, Harry. I've only known you very briefly, but you seem like you have potential._

_Others have said that, too,_ Harry replies. It's interesting, he thinks, to see the way Voldemort works. The charisma he has now had clearly come from somewhere, been built upon the foundation of this smooth and complimentary teenager. He continues to write back and forth, allowing himself to speak openly about his place in the House and some of his frustrations with the older students, including Marcus Flint, and with those his own age like Malfoy—the way he feels like an outsider to the politics despite his so-called _potential_ , the way others can close ranks when he exposes his foreign viewpoint to the light. Almost without meaning to, he admits that he's a halfblood raised in the muggle world, and that he finds the magical world still strange and confusing at times, despite having been integrated swiftly and deeply into pureblood society.

To his shock, Tom replies, _I know a thing or two about that, Harry. I have a noble magical lineage—you probably wouldn't believe me if I told you—but I was raised in the muggle world, too. Discovering my magic was a revelation beyond compare; suddenly many things made sense. You must have felt that way, too._

 _Yes,_ Harry writes, trying to process past his surprise. He’d known Voldemort had been raised in the muggle world from Dumbledore’s comments, but he’s startled to hear him admit it—didn’t he hate muggles, and muggleborns? And really, how had that even come to be, since Tom seemed aware of his heritage. Had he somehow been lost by his pureblood family? Or... was one of his own parents a muggle or a muggleborn, like Harry himself? And if the latter, did Tom know that, or think he was a pureblood, somehow? Maybe he can find out, if he asks carefully. _Very much. Things are really different here._

_And they expect you already to know how the world works, don't they._

_Exactly. No one explains things because they think you should already know, and when you don't they treat you like an idiot. I got lucky—I made friends quickly who could explain some of the things I didn't get. And I read a lot._

_You were luckier than I, then,_ Tom writes. _It wasn't until my third year at Hogwarts that I began to make friends. Before that, I did as you did—I read everything I could get my hands on. But I've become respected, especially once I discovered my heritage and began to share it with those worthy of the knowledge._

The second hint about his heritage makes Harry narrow his eyes. So, Tom hadn’t known right away that he was a descendent of Slytherin, and _Riddle_ isn’t a magical name that Harry knows. Maybe he _is_ a halfblood. He wants to ask more, try to press and see if Tom will admit what his heritage _is,_ and how he learned of it, but he thinks that this might be a test. He follows his instincts and doesn't ask, glad that he doesn't _need_ to; he already knows that Tom Riddle is Slytherin's Heir.

The conversation continues, Harry letting Tom lead a little, and the spirit in the diary plays up their similarities, digs for other connections. He doesn't write in much detail about his own past, avoiding deftly the topic of his muggle upbringing beyond its existence, and he doesn't mention any of the names of his friends, but he talks about building what he refers to as his 'faction' and complements Harry on the connections he's made, gives advice, and generally presents himself as a font of wisdom about school politics and how to influence them.

Truthfully, it _is_ interesting and even somewhat helpful, though of course things have changed a bit since the '40s when Tom was in school. And the similarities between Tom and Harry himself are as genuine as they are disconcerting—if the diary is telling the truth, that is, which Harry has no real guarantee of. He promises himself to try to dig up a little more on Tom Riddle's history, because he doubts he'll get any sort of answer or do anything other than make the magical impression angry if he accuses him of lying just to sway Harry to his side and seem more friendly.

Eventually, he finds himself yawning and nodding over the book as he reads through a story Tom is telling about his own days in third year Transfiguration, when none other than Albus Dumbledore had been the professor of that class, not yet risen to status as Headmaster. When he's finished reading and Tom's words have again faded to nothing, he writes, _That's amazing, Tom. I'm not sure I'll ever see Dumbledore the same way_. Which is true, though maybe not in the way that Tom might want. _But, listen, it's late and I need to sleep. I'll write to you more tomorrow night, okay?_

_That sounds good, Harry. Enjoy your rest, and I'll talk to you soon._

_Good night, Tom._

_Good night._

Harry closes the diary and puts it and his writing materials away, contemplative, and swings his Cloak back over himself. He makes his silent way back down through the hallways and hidden passages of Hogwarts, thinking over what he's learned—that the diary _might_ just be a useful source of information, if he can get the magical impression to trust him, if it's truthful, and if it's even _able_ to speak about the things he wants to know. There are a lot of _if_ s there, but it's something, at least; there's a possibility there that seems more fruitful than his continued dive through the dusty and dull school archives, which he suspects he's plumbed for anything useful already anyway.

He puts the diary and his things back into his satchel and his Cloak back into his trunk when he returns to his dorm and crawls into bed, so tired that he almost decides not to bother Occluding before he sleeps. But he knows what sort of thing both Sirius _and_ Snape would have to say about that kind of laziness, so he takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and delves deep into his own mental landscape.

To his surprise, he finds some disorder in the halls of his mental Hogwarts: doors flung open to bare rooms filled with memory and emotion, especially the memories that he'd been sharing with Tom, most of which live in his mental version of the Slytherin common room. The entryway to the common room is open, not requiring a password as it usually does to access his thoughts and memories of Slytherin House's complex politics. Here and there, also, the windows are open in the upper halls, letting fresh air and joy and light shine into the spaces in his mind and shift the shades of all of his thoughts, all his ideals hung in paintings on the walls. He leaves the curtains open most times, when he knows he won't need to hide his true inner heart, his joy and his love, from anyone else, but he never leaves the windows themselves open. Doing that weakens his control over his emotions and his reactions, causes his passions to weigh more heavily on the way he responds to things, and with Umbridge around he's had to be twice as controlled. Something strange is happening—something had disturbed his defences without his realizing.

Disconcerted, Harry sets his Hogwarts to rights, closing the windows and the doors, replacing his memory-books back on their shelves and replacing the furniture of his thoughts and opinions into its usual arrangement, and then setting locks and passwords where he can to double his defences and make sure that nothing could open them again without his noticing. Then he retreats back out of his construct and doubles the layer of his primary shielding as well, like placing a ward around the grounds of his Hogwarts like those that actually exist to prevent Apparition and make the castle Unplottable and protect against other things, hoping that that will give him warning in case something like this were to happen again.

The effort of so much Occlumency after his long and draining conversation with Tom knocks Harry out quite thoroughly, and his exhaustion causes him to sleep in uncharacteristically late, and he's woken by Theo shaking him to let him know that breakfast is starting.

"Ugh," Harry says, and turns his face into his pillow.

Blaise, somewhere across the room, snorts loudly.

"Shut up," Harry mumbles, still, muffled, but rolls over and begins the process of getting ready for his day, ignoring his roommates' amusement at his uncharacteristic morning grumpiness. Next time, he tells himself, he'll chat with Tom at a more sane hour, risk of being discovered or no.

* * *

Reservations about the effect on his mindscape aside, Harry does continue to write in the diary, almost every day in fact. He takes to shoring up his Occlumency shields _before_ sitting down to write to Tom, and that seems enough to prevent the diary's incursion into his mind, though he still can't feel the attempts to penetrate his shields, if there are any. Maybe it's a matter of it being a different kind of magic, or maybe he's only being paranoid and the diary had nothing to do with the disorder he'd discovered in his Occlumency construct. It's impossible to know, because after the first time it doesn't happen again.

The larger problem is that as Harry gets to know Tom better, it's hard not to want to spend _more_ time talking with him. It's only the fact that Umbridge is still watching him like a hawk and assigning her vicious detentions at the drop of a hat that keeps him from writing for more than an hour each day; he's simply not got the time some days. But if he did, he would be writing as often as he could. Tom is an interesting conversationalist and full of fascinating anecdotes about Hogwarts in the 1940s, and when his guard comes down a little, even about what it was like to live in muggle London during World War II—Tom had fortunately been at Hogwarts during the Blitz, but remembered clearly the devastation he'd returned to the summer after.

Those little slips into personal detail tell Harry that the impression, however he came to be, has detailed knowledge of his own life up until his creation at least, as well as a fair share of personality; he also remembers the details of previous conversations with Harry, unlike the impressions of the Marauders in the Map. So he's something more, something greater than them—whether that owes to the fact that he's a single concentrated personality, or the manner of his creation, or some other thing, Harry doesn't know.

But he knows, or at least _thinks_ , that he'll be able to earn the impression's trust. Tom doesn't seem to know much about current events or people at Hogwarts; Harry tests the waters by carefully mentioning Neville, but Tom doesn't react much—and not in the manner of a conspicuous non-reaction. Maybe he's just a better liar than Harry thinks, but he feels, after several weeks of writing regularly, that he can read Tom pretty well even just through writing. The impression is sly and charming, continues to be slick and evasive of providing any _real_ information about himself, but he tends not to lie outright, so far as Harry can tell. He draws in all the information Harry can provide about modern events and relies on that when he relates his own stories to Harry's experiences, which serves Harry's own efforts not to give too much away perfectly well. It's interesting and good practice for political conversation with other Slytherins without being quite as high-stakes as some of what Harry's having to juggle in real life, and though in the back of his mind he's always aware that he's talking to a young version of _Voldemort_ , he finds that he actually sort of _likes_ Tom, finds him engaging and interesting.

Of course, they stay well clear of topics of blood and any real discussion of their personal politics; Harry implies that he agrees with the pureblood side of things and that's enough for Tom not to start any debates. Harry suspects that he'd find the diary less engaging company if they were to start in on any of that; at least it would be harder to ignore who exactly it is that he's talking to. As it is, he tries to think of Tom a little like Warrington or Flint: someone whose personality he doesn't dislike, but whose politics he can't abide. Someone to be wary of.

It makes for a tenuous balance within his own mind, because he can't give up talking to the diary in hopes that Tom will decide to tell him about being Heir of Slytherin, and he also can't ever, _ever_ forget that the real Tom would very much like to see Neville, Hermione, and most everyone else Harry loves and cares about in the world very much dead, and probably painfully and violently dead as well. Silently, he resolves that if he hasn’t gotten anything out of the diary before Christmas, he’ll give up and hide it at the bottom of his trunk again—better not to tempt fate.

So he writes to the diary and writes his essays for classes and every once in a while Umbridge gives him a detention for 'disrespectful looks' or 'disrespectful tone' or just plain 'disrespect' and he goes to her office and he writes lines; she's stuck with _I must not tell lies_ even though after the beginning of November he gives up on arguing when she mentions loudly in her class how of _course_ Voldemort is certainly _not_ back despite what _certain people_ would have anyone believe. He'd hoped keeping mum might make her lay off, but it quickly becomes obvious that she's decided to hold a grudge.

Then, in the last week of November, Umbridge gives a lecture on household wards as a passive defence. She talks at length about how one should always make sure to hire a properly Ministry-certified Warder, who will be able to construct proper wards in accordance with the law, and that therefore one will never need to fear assault in their own homes from any sort of thief or other common criminal, children!

 _Ugh_ , Harry thinks, listening to her. He can see the bored expressions of his classmates all around the room—as usual, one of Umbridge's lectures had seemed like maybe for once she would say something useful, but it had turned into an advertisement for some Ministry service or other.

"And don't forget," Umbridge continues in her usual shrill tone, up at the front of the classroom, "only wards properly established by a witch or wizard of Light inclination will be thoroughly impregnable! But those, indeed, cannot be conquered whatsoever by—"

"That's not true," Harry says loudly. He curses himself internally, hesitates a moment while Umbridge slowly turns her bulging eyes on him, and then decides that if she's going to hold a grudge and make him write _I will not tell lies_ over and over in his own blood anyway, he might as well _tell the truth_. "It's not true."

" _Mister_ Potter—" she begins, but he shakes his head and cuts her off.

"First of all," he says, "the House of Black hasn't had a wix of Light inclination in its line for generations, but the ancestral home of my House has some of the most extensive and powerful wards of any magical home in England."

"Those were surely established by a Light wix," Umbridge insists, "as your _esteemed_ House of course has the funds to hire one!"

"No," Harry insists. "A lot of them are cast with the family magic—they have to have been cast by a member of the Black family. And a lot of them are Dark wards, which are perfectly good and really strong, and could only have been cast by Dark wixen."

"Dark magic is _illegal_ , Mr. Potter!" Umbridge shrieks.

"You're either stupid or a liar," Harry replies bluntly. "You can't make all Dark magic illegal, because that would include basically all of Care of Magical Creatures, Divination, and half of the spells Aurors use every day—including the Disarming Charm. And anyway, even if it were, a Dark wix of sufficient ability can cast Light spells anyway, so _even if_ only Light wards were useful, a Warder with a Dark inclination would still be able to put them up if they were strong enough."

“Detention,” Umbridge says, her voice nearly a hiss. “Every night this week, Mr. Potter, for your lies and disrespect for both my authority and the law.”

“Fine,” Harry says with a shrug. “Anyway, you were wrong about something else, too—no wards are impregnable. There’s just no such thing.”

“There are _plenty_ of Light wards that cannot be breached by outside force,” Umbridge says.

Harry rolls his eyes, giving up on any pretence of respect. There’s really no point. “No, there aren’t,” he says. He glances at Neville, hoping his apology is clear in his face; Neville seems to catch something in his expression and nods a little from across the room. “Look, it’s clear if you just look at history that there aren’t. The Ancient and Noble House of Longbottom is Light all the way through and their wards were too, and Lord Voldemort showed up and smashed right through, and look where they are now. With enough power and enough cunning, _any_ ward can be broken.”

Umbridge sputters, and then she rounds on Neville, which isn’t at all what Harry wanted. “Mr. Longbottom,” she says, “please correct Mr. Potter at once!”

Neville’s face is nearly white, but he shakes his head. “Harry’s right, Professor Umbridge. There’re reasons for why it was possible—one of them is that our family hasn’t had a Runemaster of any skill in a few generations to do upkeep on the wards for ourselves, which would have helped a lot. But my gran says that we’d had a Ministry warder in to check up on them, and he’d said they were fine enough; only blood wards would have been better but those are harder for Light wixen. Dumbledore himself couldn’t have done better.”

Umbridge seems briefly stymied by this. Then she rallies and says, “Well, well then it clearly wasn’t done _properly_ —“

“It was,” Neville says, as stiffly dignified as Harry has ever heard him. “As proper as it could have been.”

Umbridge is scowling. “You are only a child and certainly cannot know better than I do, a Ministry employee and an _expert_ in methods of defence! I’m uncertain where you got your ideas, Mr. Longbottom, but they are incorrect.”

“They’re _not_ ,” Neville insists. “You’re the one who’s wrong, and… and Harry’s right to stand up to you. Relying only on wards… I mean, my parents were taken by surprise. They thought our wards were going to be enough to protect them, and now they’re dead. If you tell people to do the same, more are going to die—whether you believe Voldemort is back or not, those Death Eaters are at large now, and they’re _going_ to hurt people.”

“The same happened to my parents,” Harry adds, though it grates in his throat to talk about them to _her_. “They believed that the Fidelius—a Light charm, in case you didn’t know, Professor—would be enough to protect them. It’s probably the closest to impregnable that you can get—but even the Fidelius has a weakness, and that’s treachery. _Lies_ , Professor, are what killed my parents.” Purposefully, he splays his bandaged hand on the desk in front of him. “Say what you want. I _am_ telling the truth.”

She glares, her whole expression transformed into something even more ugly than her usual simpering insincerity; the rage she feels is plain. Then she hides it away, forcing a shade of mere sour displeasure over the raw hate that she seems to hold in her heart toward Harry, for who knows what reason. It doesn’t matter, ultimately; if the Dursleys had taught Harry anything, it’s that people don’t need a reason to hate you and no amount of reason can make them stop. “Be that as it may,” she says, with more composure than Harry had expected her to be able to summon, “you will still be serving detention this week, Mr. Potter. And you may join him, Mr. Longbottom.”

Harry grits his teeth. “Fine.”

He manages to keep his mouth shut for the remainder of class, where Umbridge continues to lecture even more pointedly about the virtues of Light wards and when pauses to list Dark wards and other rituals that are classed as illegal. The bias is obvious, but it seems foolish; some of the most powerful Houses in the Wizengamot are the Dark Houses, and even if they weren’t, about 40% of the magical population has a Dark inclination, even if it’s rarely tested for. The Ministry seems to be trying to redefine ‘Light’ and ‘Dark’ away from the magical theory that Harry has learned, and he’s not sure why, or if there’s any real reason at all other than wanting more control over the way people think.

Then again, it’s not like bias against muggleborns is any more logical; they make up about a third of the population, or would if half of them weren’t driven back out of the magical world as soon as they completed their educations. It was that sort of thing that Sirius had been trying to fight against in the Wizengamot’s legislative sessions over the past few years, with limited success. Just one more stupid frustration about the magical world to store away and deal with later, after the war was won.

Finally, class lets out, and Harry packs up his bag and then hesitates for a moment, indecisive, as he watches Neville and Hermione and Ron get ready to leave as well, chatting among themselves. Maybe it’s foolish, but he misses his friends; he’s tired of spending all his time arguing with a teacher who hates him or talking to paintings of snakes and the echo of a sixteen year old future Dark Lord.

So he catches up with them as they head out of the classroom and says, “Neville, hey.”

The trio of Gryffindors all pause, and Neville turns with a hesitant smile. “Harry. Um… how are you?”

Harry shrugs and adjusts the strap of his satchel. “Fine, I s’pose. Listen—I’m sorry for getting you in trouble with Umbridge.”

“You didn’t,” Neville says immediately. “I should have said something ages ago, really. It was just… easier to keep my head down, you know?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, then sighs. “Well, I did try that.”

“She really wouldn’t give you a break,” Hermione says sympathetically. “I kept wanting to say something, but…”

“No, better not,” Harry says immediately. “I mean, I know you hate getting in trouble with teachers.”

Hermione shakes her head. “It’s not because of that—I mean, she’s not much of a teacher, is she?”

Harry laughs, joined by Neville and Ron, Ron a bit awkwardly. Ron seems uncomfortable just in general, and Harry wonders if their already-tenuous friendship has deteriorated entirely under the weight of Harry’s own recent distance from the Gryffindors. “No, she’s not,” he agrees, ignoring the issue of Ron for the time being. That’ll resolve or it won’t—truthfully, he’s got bigger problems. “Listen, I’ve got a spare next and I know you do too—d’you want to come with me to the library? I was going to go work on my essay for Arithmancy.”

“Oh, yes!” Hermione says immediately, and Neville agrees as well, but Ron begs off in a sullen tone and vanishes down the hall toward Gryffindor tower. Absent his grumpy company, the three of them wander up toward the library, chatting, and Harry feels a little bit like he’s gotten his balance back. He’ll have to be careful, because he can’t let word get back to Voldemort that he’s too friendly with the Boy-Who-Lived and a muggleborn, but he _had_ sold his value to the Dark Lord as partly being Neville’s trust in him. So… maybe he _can_ keep his friends—in the effort to thwart Umbridge and still pass all their classes, if nothing else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *waggles finger at Harry* Risky choices, kid! But at least he's got his friends back. And a Big Fat Baby Gay Crush. As one does.
> 
> Also, a reminder that this fic in general is brought to you by FUCK TERFS, ESPECIALLY YOU, JKR. My city now, fucker!!


	9. Balancing Acts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I FORGOT TO UPDATE I AM. SO SORRY. 
> 
> HAVE SOME GEMMA TO MAKE UP FOR IT.

Gemma had expected her final year at Hogwarts to be interesting, but she hadn’t expected it to be interesting like this. Mostly she’d just been hoping to pass her NEWTs with good enough grades to get into a magical university somewhere outside Britain, but instead… well.

Hogwarts has been turned thoroughly upside down by the arrival of Dolores Umbridge and by her increasing control over the school. She seems poised, in Gemma’s opinion, to usurp Dumbledore entirely before Easter, and maybe even before Christmas if something really drastic happens. In mid-November she begins “evaluations” of the professors in the school, nominally to ensure that Dumbledore had been practicing an acceptable standard of hiring; realistically, Gemma knows an intimidation tactic when she sees one. So do most of the other older students, and probably even a good number of the younger ones, especially in Slytherin.

She’s Head Girl, which means she has a certain responsibility to the younger student body, to keep them safe and ensure that they’re being dealt with fairly by the adults of the school—and that they return that fairness with due respect. And she does her best, of course she does; she patrols the corridors after hours when her turn comes up and takes points or awards them as seems suitable, she answers questions from first years lost on their way to classes, and she carries a few absently misplaced library books from the study halls back to the library. It feels like a bit of a loss to have to leave most of the shepherding of the younger Slytherins to the Slytherin Prefects, but she’s got responsibilities to the whole school as Head Girl, and in truth it _is_ gratifying to get to know some of the other students. It’s been a long time since there was a Slytherin Head Girl or Boy, and for a reason; they’re always pretty insular, which has its benefits of course, and Gemma has never regretted not making many friends outside her own House… but it has its drawbacks, too.

One of them is that it’s only by the bit of odd serendipity that is her friendship with Harry Potter that she learns about the Defence club being formed by Neville Longbottom and his friends. He’s the one to tip her off that something is happening, and a little bit of eavesdropping on the Hufflepuffs is enough to get her the time and location of the first meeting—well meaning but not very subtle, that bunch. And she takes herself and Ayesha and Terence and a small group of younger Slytherins down to the Hog’s Head that weekend, and she doesn’t look back.

Maybe it’s bad form for the Head Girl to be breaking the rules so blatantly, but she hasn’t doubted Harry’s word about Voldemort’s return for a minute, and she’s damn well going to be ready when war breaks out again in magical Britain. She’d only been a toddler when Voldemort fell, but her parents talk about those days sometimes when they’ve both got a few glasses of wine in them. It had been terrible and had gone on for far too long in no small part because everyone had dismissed “Lord” Voldemort at first, him and his little gentleman’s club. But the disappearances had become too obvious to ignore after a while, and eventually the Death Eaters had become bold, or perhaps had simply recruited those who didn’t care about subtlety, and then blood had run in the side-streets and back alleys that made up magical London, and whole muggle families were found butchered in their homes, and so on and so forth—a lot of it was still shrouded in secrecy, no one willing to talk about what had gone on, or perhaps no one was able. So many terrible things had happened in the shadows, and Umbridge was setting up this new generation to die in that same darkness.

Gemma refuses. So she goes to the meetings of the Defence Association, she teaches students in second, third, and fourth year the Disarming Charm and how to control the temperature of the water summoned with an _Aguamenti_ to scald an opponent. She learns the Bat Bogey Hex from Ginny Weasley, which is frankly brilliant; from Percy Weasley she learns a charm to test food for magical adulteration; from Penelope Clearwater the incantation for a Patronus, though none of them have quite figured out how to make it work just yet—the books, Clearwater says, are just full of useless hokey explanations about embodying the spirit of joy which really makes no sense. Then again, the books all also say that it’s quite difficult, so perhaps it’s only that they’re still schoolchildren, really. The club doesn’t have a standout leader, but between herself, the elder Weasley, Clearwater, and Diggory, they’re able to plumb the depths of knowledge available to all four Houses, including those tidbits of word-of-mouth that no one else usually gets access too. And they have the resources of all the younger students, too, some of whom have bright ideas or skills to offer.

Neville Longbottom is easy to underestimate, Gemma decides quickly. He’s not loud, he doesn’t seem comfortable when he’s talking in front of the group, but when he’s given instructions he can understand there’s real power behind his spells and real strength in him when he turns to help his peers. Hermione Granger, too, is a bit of a marvel; she can learn any spell, or so it seems, and her memory is near-perfect and her mind excellent at connecting one thing to another. She’d shared the credit for the enchanted coins the club used to set meeting times with Clearwater, but Clearwater had admitted to Gemma a few weeks into October that Hermione had been the one to figure it out; Clearwater had known and offered up the idea of a Protean Charm, but Granger had adapted it, made it function. She has the mind of an innovator and the stubborn will of a bulldog. It’s easy to understand, having made their acquaintances, how Harry had clicked in with them, for all she’d always boggled a little at how such a perfect Slytherin could fit in so well with hapless Gryffs. But they’re not just Gryffs… and truthfully, Harry had maybe not always been such a perfect Slytherin.

It’s more the boy who’d returned to Hogwarts on the first of September this year who seems that way: reserved and sly, keeping secrets like he was born to do it, keeping his head down except when it’s time to deliver a bit of dry wit or a cuttingly sarcastic comment on Draco Malfoy’s most recent bit of peacocking about. Or… maybe the boy who’d returned to Hogwarts a week after Easter last spring, the pale one who’d barely spoken, his whole self suddenly coiled up inside, hidden and protected. It’s a snake’s instinct to hide from the light when harmed; Gemma knows it well. She hadn’t known what to do then, and she still doesn’t really know what to do now about Harry and the ways he’s changed. She only half knows what’s caused it, and though it worries her, she also knows him well enough to know that trying to pry would only end in his distancing himself from her the way he’s done from everyone else.

So she keeps an eye on him, but from a distance. It’s a relief when at the end of November Harry suddenly starts hanging out with Neville and Hermione again, at least to study; she sees them in a study halls from time to time and Harry seems more relaxed in general, though he’s still less social than he had been—maybe simply owing to the pressure of the return to school and the sudden imposition of Umbridge and her endless detentions, Gemma thinks. He does spend a lot of time in detention with the professor, to Gemma’s displeasure, including the entire final week of November. Gemma hates it when any professor picks on her baby snakes unfairly.

First term seems to be drawing to a close unreasonably quickly, really. Umbridge is a nightmare and makes every hour spent in Defence feel like it drags on forever; what her dubious tutelage is doing to Gemma’s chances of an O on her Defence NEWT she doesn’t even want to consider. But outside of that, studying for exams eats up a lot of time, and Ayesha and her Head Girl duties eat what’s left. So it’s a bit of a shock to receive a letter from her mother and realize that the date at the top is _December 1st_. Absently, she feeds a bite of sausage to her family’s Great Horned Owl, Timothy, and reads through the letter.

 _Gemma,_ her mother writes. 

_All is well at home; I hope that you are bearing up tolerably under that odious woman at Hogwarts. I’ve asked your father as requested what he might be able to do about her from his position in the Ministry, but he has reported that unfortunately this Umbridge is one of Fudge’s favourites and will therefore be quite difficult to displace. I wish you luck._

_Libby has come down with some sort of elfish flu and so Nuna has been picking up the slack with the laundry. I approve of your choice of her; she is managing well. You shall have to come along again, should we have occasion to acquire a fourth elf._   
_Also, I have begun preparations for the Yule Ball. The Warringtons did an admirable job of hosting last year but I’m certain we’ll be able to outdo them… as always._

Gemma pauses, imagines her mother’s delicate laugh, a little mocking as always, and rolls her eyes. Then she reads on, _I’m sure you’ll be bringing Ms. Hussain as your date no matter what I might have to say about it, also as always, but I have enclosed a further invitation for you to issue. After our brief encounter at the Wizengamot session this past August and your comments over the summer and in previous letters, I find myself desirous of properly making the acquaintance of young Mr. Harry Potter, Heir Black. Invite him to the Ball—and do try to convince him to come. Tell him he may bring his guardian, if he must. I believe in your powers of persuasion, my dear._

_I live in hope—though never expectation—of your swift reply._

_Love from your mother,_

_Lady Catherine Farley_

Gemma blinks at the letter, then groans quietly.

“Your mum?” Ayesha asks, amused, and immediately snags the letter from her hand to read it herself. She reads quickly as always, refolds the letter, and passes it back. “That’s interesting.”

“I mean, I’ll ask him, and he’ll probably even say yes if what he’s been like this term is anything to go by,” Gemma says. “But I’m not sure my mum realizes what she’s getting into.”

“Oh, definitely not,” Ayesha says. “I read the Wizengamot record from August—she probably thinks he’s just a kid, as straightforward and honest as Lord Black, from how earnest he was about you and him being friends.”

“Well, she’s in for a shock,” Gemma says, shaking her head, and goes back to the envelope—indeed, there’s a small invitation still inside, penned tidily on card stock. _We cordially invite,_ blah, blah. Well, she’ll deliver it, but she makes her mother no promises.

There’s really no point dilly-dallying, but her day is full, so it’s not until well into the evening that she’s able to find a spare minute to try to find Harry. He’s not in the common room, and when she asks Millicent Bulstrode, who’s sitting by herself in the common room playing with her cat and ignoring most everyone, she says that Harry hasn’t returned yet—he’d been given another of Umbridge’s detentions.

“ _Again_?” Gemma demands. “He spent all of last week in detention with her!”

Bulstrode shrugs. “He’s given up on keeping his mouth shut in class. I think he ran out of patience.

“Merlin,” Gemma says. “Shouldn’t he be done by now?”

“I was expecting him back fifteen minutes ago,” Bulstrode says. Her manner is very casual, but her eyes are sharp; she’s concerned. Gemma nods in tacit acknowledgment and doesn’t delay, the invitation in her pocket nearly forgotten.

She traces Harry’s likely path through the castle from the Defence classroom to the dungeons, hoping that he hasn’t taken one of his secret passages along the way and she’s missed him. However, as she passes along the third floor corridor not far from Umbridge’s office, she catches sight of the corner of someone sitting in a window-seat. The curtains on the windows are drawn, so the figure is shrouded in shadow, but she recognizes Harry’s slim form as she draws closer and a moment later realizes that he’s slumped over sideways against the wall.

“Harry!” she calls, and moves quicker, coming up to place a hand on his shoulder and shake him gently.

Much to her concern, he rouses slowly, seeming confused. “Gemma?” he says, his voice a little slurred. “Did… I fall asleep?”

“I think so,” she says, looking him over swiftly—he’s cradling one of his arms close to his chest, his hand tucked protectively against his body, and she remembers in a flash the bandage he’d taken to wearing. She’d known it was because of Umbridge, but assumed she’d taken to smacking students’ knuckles with a ruler or some such thing, and he was protecting bruises and scrapes. But that wouldn’t cause him to pass out. Before he can react, she snags his wrist and pulls his hand out, baring to the light of the hall the deep bloody marks on the back of his hand, his own handwriting carved into his skin: _I must not tell lies._

“Harry—“

“Don’t,” he says, and yanks his hand back, his eyes suddenly much clearer. “Don’t say anything. It’s fine.”

“You _passed out_ ,” she says. “What’s she been doing to you? I’m going to the Headmaster _right now_ , and you’re going to the infirmary, let’s go.”  
“No,” Harry insists. “No, I can’t. What good would it do? Sirius would only pull me out of school, because Dumbledore’s not going to be able to get rid of her, and I can’t leave.”

“She’s _torturing_ you,” Gemma says. “I’m not going to let that continue!”

“Too bad,” Harry says, ruthless. “If you’ve got something that will help, great, but I’m not letting you tell anyone.”

“You’re being unreasonable.”

“Maybe. Doesn’t matter.” As she watches, he reaches into his satchel and pulls out a swathe of bandages, the same sort she’s seen wrapped around his hand constantly since the very beginning of term, when he first earned one of Umbridge’s detentions.

Horrified, Gemma says, “She’s been doing this all term?”

“Yes,” Harry says, seeming resigned as he begins to wrap his hand. “It’s really not that big a deal—she just had me go on longer than usual this time, and I got a bit woozy on my way back to the common room so I sat down. I guess I fainted.”

“Harry…”

“It’s fine, Gemma,” he says again. Then he looks up, green eyes clear and steady behind his glasses. The look on his face… he’s not going to give up, Gemma knows. He’s like a dog with a bone at the best of times, and for some foolish reason this clearly matters to him. “I can’t actually stop you, but you know I’m right—I’ll just end up pulled out of school, and that’s the last thing I want.”

“The publicity could put a stop to it,” Gemma points out. “She’s surely doing it to other people.”

“Yeah. But if the Ministry wouldn’t believe me about Voldemort being back, they’re definitely not going to believe an accusation of one of their high officials of torturing children.” He shakes his head. “It’s still stupid that they won’t use Veritaserum in Wizengamot sessions, honestly.”

Gemma sighs, then says, “You’re not wrong.” It’s disgusting, of course, but Harry is right. Heir Black or no, he’s been painted as a liar quite thoroughly in the papers over the past few months, and plenty of people are willing to believe the Ministry if it means that they’re safe. Never mind that believing the Ministry blindly makes them _less_ safe, but that level of logic is beyond most wixen, or so it seems most of the time.

“She’ll be gone by the end of the year,” Harry says. “And if we can find a _real_ crack to exploit, not something that’ll come down to her word against mine in court—“

“Yours and everyone else she’s tortured,” Gemma says.

“If the others will even speak up,” Harry says. “A lot of them are Muggleborns, who must’ve figured out by now that making a stink will have them out of the magical world on their arses, since none of them have said anything already. I think she doesn’t do it to anyone who would actually be believed—I had detention with Neville all last week and she made us write lines with regular quills.”

Gemma scowls. “Of course she does.”

“I’m a liar and a troublemaker and a pretender to power,” Harry says, and shifts to push himself up and out of the alcove. He wavers on his feet for a minute, but steadies before Gemma has a chance to reach out and grab him. His face is a bit pale, the usually warm brown of his skin gone bloodless, but he stays up. “And muggleborns are always looking for attention, or don’t have any legitimate representation in the Wizengamot, or don’t realize how bad what she’s doing is.” Harry shrugs, resettles his satchel, and says, “We’d never get anywhere.”

Gemma’s not sure she entirely believes that, but Harry’s conviction is clear, and he is right that Lord Black would have him out of Hogwarts in the blink of an eye. It wouldn’t do Harry or anyone else any good for that to happen—better he and others with strong voices and support in the magical world’s twisted legal system be here to see what’s going on. Silently Gemma commits herself to paying closer attention, figuring out which students are being tortured with the blood quill and documenting it. It’s her job, after all, as Head Girl. 

“Alright,” she says reluctantly. “But I’m getting you some Dittany out of Professor Snape’s stores, and you are going to let me tend those wounds.”

“He’ll ask questions.”

“No, he won’t. Not if it’s me asking.”

Harry glances at her, and she sees him make the decision not to ask—she’s glad, because the answers aren’t hers to give. “Fine.”

They begin the walk back down to the common room, and Gemma runs a hand over her face. “This wasn’t even why I came to find you,” she says.

Another sideways glance. “Did you need something?”

“Sort of.” Gemma pauses, Harry stopping with her, and she reaches into her pocket for the invitation. “Just… well, read it. You can say no.”

She hands it over, and those emerald eyes flick over the writing quickly before looking up at her once more. “ _Should_ I say no?”

“That’s really up to you,” Gemma says, beginning to walk again. Harry follows along, the invitation vanishing into his bag. “My mother is… difficult, but it’s a genuinely meant invitation, and it might be an opportunity.”

“An opportunity for who?” Harry mutters, but then nods. “Thanks. Is it okay if I think about it for a bit?”

“Please do,” Gemma says. “You should write Lord Black, too—my mother said you could bring him, if you want, though I’m sure she’d prefer you didn’t.”

“Yeah,” Harry says. He considers for a moment, then says, “Who else is likely to come?”

“Well,” Gemma says, and consults her memory of who’d attended past balls, who her mother had been talking about recently, and who her father was courting for work. “Plenty—a mix of Grey and Dark Houses for the most part, of course. Farley is a Grey House, as you probably know, but—“

“You lean Dark,” Harry says. “So… the Greengrasses, the… Flints? The Higgses, the Warringtons…”

Gemma nods. “Astute of you.”

“Sirius has taught me a lot.” Harry shrugs, looking a little awkward when Gemma glances at him. “I’ve got more to learn, though.”

“We all do,” Gemma says. “There’s a lot to know. In any case—you have an idea of the core, it seems. Ask Lord Black—he’s not been to one of my family’s balls, I don’t think, but he’ll have ideas about the whole thing for you. It’s up to you—if you decide not to come I’ll put my mother off somehow. Don’t worry about insulting her.”

“Thanks,” Harry says again. “I’ll let you know.”

“When you can,” Gemma says, because it’s really all she has to offer—she’ll fetch him some Dittany and try to heal his wounds, but there’s a wound in him deeper than a little bit of kindness and a potion to cure the scars on his skin can touch. She knows it, can see it, and wishes that there were more that she could do… but she’ll do what she can, at least.

When they make it back to the common room, Gemma tells Harry to wait for her and then keeps going on down the hall toward Professor Snape’s office. His door is closed, of course; it’s outside of his usual office hours. But she taps the portrait frame with her wand and whispers the password he’d given her at the beginning of the year, with a look that promised dire consequences if she abused his trust, and heads inside. The office is dark and quiet, and she lights her wand with a quick murmured “ _Lumos_ ” as she makes her way over to the potions storeroom, which responds to another password she’d been entrusted with. She remembers keenly her surprise at being granted such access, but then their Head of House had always been diligent in his care for his snakes.

She’s still peering up at labels on bottles when she hears the sound of a door clicking open behind her in the office and turns to find that the professor has come to investigate.

“Miss Farley,” he says, when he sees her through the open doorway to the storeroom. “What do you need?”

“Essence of Dittany,” she says bluntly, and sees his face go remote in the way she’s come to understand means he’s hiding some stronger emotion.

“For…?”

She shakes her head. “They didn’t want me to say, sir.”

That remoteness turns to a frown. “I see.”

“I’m sorry,” she offers, because she knows he must be concerned—if someone in the House is hurt, he would of course want to know about it. But for various reasons that she’s always been sure she only half-understands, he makes himself more a forbidding figure than a protective one, and so younger students have always been more likely to come to her or the other Prefects than to go to him. It’s a shame, because Gemma knows that he’d save them all from the world’s cruelties if he could… but he’s realistic, and so is she.

“There,” he says, and points up at a high shelf, where a small vial labelled _Dittany_ sits. “Take the vial, Miss Farley; I can brew more. You remember the dilution?”

She nods. “One drop per half a litre of distilled water.”

“Good.”

Gemma reaches up and snags the bottle, tucking it away carefully into a pocket, and says, “I’ll tell you when I can. If I can.”

“Until then, I trust your care,” he says. “And that you will inform me if there is anything else you need.”

“Yes, sir.” She pauses a moment, hesitating, and then says, “I know there’s probably not much to be done, but if there is any effort you could make to help oust Umbridge, I and everyone would appreciate it.”

The professor takes a measured breath and then steps back from the doorway to the storeroom, waving her out. Obeying the tacit command, she goes, slipping past him. Before she reaches the door to the office, however, he says, “I make no promises, Miss Farley.”

She looks over her shoulder, sees him studying her, and nods. “I understand, sir.”

She does understand. Sort of, anyway. As much as it’s possible to understand Professor Severus Snape and his strangeness—he’s always been odd, to Gemma. Stern but wise, always, bitter but determined… and a lot of people, even in Slytherin, don’t seem to see past the prickly surface. Maybe it’s only because she’s always been a good student and reasonably talented with potions, as well as rule-abiding and ready to look out for her fellows that she’s been allowed to see past the top layer of his “dungeon bat” persona, but she also suspects that she’s one of the few who’s _cared_ to look deeper. Then again, getting to know people, her curiosity and her desire to connect even with the oddest ones out, has always been her strongest suit and she knows it; it’s how she plans to get ahead. She’s no fool—it’s better to know people than to know things, and anyone who thinks otherwise is deluded.

So she understands at least that the professor is in a complicated spot. Truthfully, all of them are in a complicated spot right now. It’s not a good time to be rebelling against the government, because she’s reasonably confident that in very little time, there will be a Dark Lord working actively to destroy their society as it currently exists, including that very government; they’ll need to stand together and defend the institutions of order if they want to survive. But at the same time, what sort of society is it that they’re trying to save, if their government will install an employee willing to torture children as a schoolteacher? She doesn’t know how to feel about it herself; adults with complicated ties bridging back to complicated histories like Professor Snape and even Professor Dumbledore can only have it worse.

There are no good guys, Gemma muses to herself as she steps back into the common room and spots Harry talking quietly with Bulstrode. No good guys, and very few innocents left.

* * *

Despite Umbridge’s surveillance of classes and students alike—with Care of Magical Creatures and Divination getting the most disdainful scrutiny, according to what Gemma hears from others, though Umbridge seems to be avoiding NEWT Care, which Gemma can’t entirely fault her for—the Defence Association manages to meet three times in December. They practice summoning and banishing objects, the Repelling Charm, and the Disarming Charm, the latter of which they’d already learned, but more practice with it always seems like a good idea, even with the newspapers unnervingly quiet. Maybe the Death Eaters really are lying low; maybe the Prophet is suppressing the news. Gemma doesn’t know, and doesn’t think it matters. She helps some of the younger students practice a Tripping Jinx until they can cast it without an incantation, and quietly but sternly tells everyone that, should anything happen over the holidays, they are to run.

The Gryffindors look mulish about this advice, of course. So do the Hufflepuffs, whose leave-no-man-behind attitude is going to get them all killed one day. 

“It’s good advice,” says Clearwater. “None of us are good enough duelists to take on a Death Eater, I don’t care how good you think you are. If someone attacks you or your family, you run. You run and you get word to one of us as soon as possible, alright?”

“Being a member of this club isn’t just about learning Defence,” Diggory adds. “Or, it is, but it’s important to remember that part of Defence is not being alone when you could have allies by your side. We’re here to support one another, as we have been all term, alright? So if something happens, _get word out_.”

“How?” asks a Gryffindor girl, the one with a twin in Ravenclaw; she shrinks a little when attention turns onto her. “I mean, I can’t Apparate. And… if something happens…”

“That’s a good question,” Diggory says, exchanging a glance with Clearwater, who’s already got that academic frown on her face. A glance tells Gemma that Granger shares the look. “We’ll all do a bit of research and try to come up with some solutions, okay? Next week, Friday, before everyone goes home—we’ll have our last meeting then, alright? Between now and then, everyone try to look up some solutions for long-distance communication other than owls. Just in case.”

Gemma sighs, and then adds, “But getting word out is less important than staying alive, alright? If you can get help without endangering yourself further, excellent. Sometimes, however, it’s best to just stay still and silent and hidden, or to get away as far and fast as possible, and not waste energy and time on other things.”

She gets a few looks from the other older students, but she’s right and she knows it, and if they spared a thought they’d know it too. To smooth the ruffled feathers a little, she adds, “If you can, make a run for the nearest crowded part of the muggle world that you can reach. Remember: the Death Eaters are mostly if not entirely traditionalist purebloods, and know next to nothing about how to navigate the muggle world. But you’re all likely to know better, and if you don’t, ask your muggleborn friends. Got it?”

There’s a murmur. Gemma narrows her eyes. “ _Got it_?” she demands.

“Got it,” comes the echo, clearer this time.

“Thank you,” she says, and stuffs down the frustration. Clearwater and Diggory have gotten the respect of the group so easily, even with Diggory being a year younger. Damn the Dark Lord for that, too; Slytherins have never been loved, but the fear and the disgust hadn’t been nearly so bad a few generations ago, according to her grandmother.

The meeting wraps up and people begin to trickle out in twos and threes, or by themselves; Clearwater and the eldest Weasley go together, heads bent together as usual, and Gemma glances around to locate Ayesha. She’s standing by the window that the room always generates when Clearwater is the one to request the room, and Gemma goes over to join her. 

“Hey,” she says softly, and steps up close enough for the backs of their hands to brush together. Immediately, Ayesha turns her palm to catch Gemma’s hand and twine their fingers together, and then turns her body, too, like a flower to the sun. It makes Gemma smile.

“Hey,” Ayesha says. There are still other people in the room, so she doesn’t lean in; Gemma regrets the loss of the kiss, though she knows she’ll be granted one in a few minutes, once they’re alone. “I’m proud of you, you know that?”

Startled, Gemma raises an eyebrow. “For what?”

“They wouldn’t have wanted us here,” Ayesha says, and nods toward the last few people trickling out. Among the stragglers are Diggory, Longbottom, Granger, and Weasley-the-second-most-junior, the club’s progenitors, who often linger near to the last. “But you’ve made this a place for everyone, and you’ve never given up on what’s really important.”

“I’m only doing what I have to,” Gemma protests. “It’s the literal least I could do—I’m no Defence prodigy.”

“You don’t need to be,” Ayesha says. “You just need to teach some common sense. God knows none of the other Houses have any to spare.”

Gemma snorts, then laughs fully. “Rude.” She glances over, sees that the others have gone and they’re alone, and leans in to steal the kiss that she’s been craving. “I’m proud of you too. I learned all my courage from you, you know.”

“You might’ve learned some of it from Harry,” Ayesha says.

“Well, maybe.” Gemma smiles and leans in to kiss Ayesha again, lingering this time. Her free hand comes to rest on Ayesha’s waist, holding her close, and their lips slide together, gentle and slick. Ayesha, never as demure as she pretends to others, sucks Gemma’s lower lip between her own briefly, and Gemma leans in closer, savouring shared breath and warmth. Finally, for need of a fuller breath, they part, and Gemma leans her forehead against Ayesha’s, her forehead pressed to the thin fabric layer of Ayesha’s hijab. “Are we going to be okay?”

“Of course we are,” Ayesha says. “What’s on your mind, Gem?”

“I know you want to stay out of the war,” Gemma says, and then hesitates.

There’s a pause. Ayesha studies Gemma’s face, and then sighs and pulls back a little, giving them both a bit of distance. “But you don’t.”

Mute, Gemma shakes her head. 

“Gemma…”

“I know,” Gemma says. “Common sense, right? I suppose I don’t have any either.”

“You do, though,” Ayesha says. “So there’s got to be something behind this.” 

It’s a demand for answers, however subtly phrased, and Gemma knows it. The problem is articulating the thoughts that have been chasing around and around in her head since she found Harry passed out in a window seat only a week or so ago. He hadn’t yet given her an answer about the ball, but his manner that evening had been… she’s not sure she has the words for any of it. But she owes Ayesha an answer. “I can’t do nothing,” she says, and holds up a hand before Ayesha can interrupt. “I know that protecting myself, protecting _us_ , isn’t nothing. But… I was given this badge for a reason.” She reaches up and touches the Head Girl’s badge. “And it was more than just good grades and not getting caught breaking the rules.”

“Being Head Girl is a responsibility,” Ayesha says, “but it’s a _Hogwarts_ responsibility. We’re graduating soon. You don’t need to let it anchor you here.”

“I’m not,” she says. “But I think I’ve come to understand better what it is the professors saw in me that they decided to give it to me. I’m a Slytherin, Aya, I know it and you know it—that means I look after myself and my own, I survive, and I thrive. I just… don’t want to survive in a world that’s being destroyed by a war that I could help to fight.”

“What makes you think _you_ can help with anything?” Ayesha demands fiercely. “You’re a decent duelist, Gem, but you said it yourself: you’re no Defence prodigy!”

Gemma’s expression goes taut with the stinging hurt the words cause, and she sees Ayesha soften. 

“I’m sorry,” Ayesha says, more gentle. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just…”

“Afraid. I know. Me too.” Gemma looks away, looks down. Their hands are still clasped together, Ayesha’s brown fingers tangled with her pale ones, and she holds on a little tighter. “That’s why, really.”

Ayesha squeezes back, and with her free hand reaches to touch Gemma’s chin and tilt her face back up so that their eyes meet. There’s a patient calm on her face, as there always is, but in her eyes Gemma can see the fear. It’s a fear she recognizes easily, partly because she knows Ayesha’s face so well, but also because it’s the same fear she sees in the mirror every day. “I don’t want you to.”

“I know.” Gemma leans her face into Ayesha’s touch. “I won’t stand by and watch that bastard destroy our world though. And I won’t be the last to know when he turns on those who think they’re safe.”

Ayesha nods, and Gemma knows they’re thinking of the same things: Gemma’s own parents, content in their conservatism, convinced it’ll protect them when push comes to shove. The nature of war, though, is that it less draws lines in the sand and more opens cracks in the earth, everything shaken and splitting like in an earthquake; if you’re standing on the line when the chasm opens, you just end up falling in. Or those like Ayesha’s family, who are likely to avoid the conflict, but only by withdrawing entirely, cutting all ties to Britain. Gemma’s not willing to give up everyone she knows and everything she cares about that way, to go and return only to survey the wreckage when the dust settles. It doesn’t seem worth it.

“So you’ll fight,” Ayesha says, her voice a sigh. “I… I can’t, Gem.”

“I know.” Gemma leans down, steals another soft kiss. “I wouldn’t ask you to. Will you go to Damascus?”

Ayesha shrugs. “Maybe. Depending on how bad it gets, I suppose. My family will go, stay with relatives.”

“I want you to be safe.”

“You think I don’t want the same? You could come with me.”

Gemma shakes her head. “You know I couldn’t.” Even if Ayesha’s family approved and they could be open about their relationship, Gemma is unwilling to abandon her own parents or her duties as Heir Farley. “I have protections. And I’m a Slytherin. I’ll be careful.”

“Not careful enough.”

Gemma smiles wryly. “Probably not. Will it help if…” She pauses, swallows, and then says, “Will a promise help?”

Ayesha goes still. “That depends on what kind.”

“What if I promise to marry you?” Gemma says, her voice a whisper caught in her throat. “If I promise that we’ll have a life together some day? I… I don’t have anything proper prepared, not yet—I was going to wait until we graduated, until we got into university and I could really offer you something, but…”

“Thank God,” is all Ayesha says, and leans in for another kiss. “You make me that promise, Gem, and I don’t care if your engagement gift to me is a muggle bubblegum wrapper. If you promise you’ll live, I’ll marry you.”

“I’ll live,” Gemma says. There are tears in her eyes and on Ayesha’s cheeks as she pulls Ayesha into another close embrace, burying her face in Ayesha’s shoulder. “I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize if there are any formatting errors in this chapter that I missed--I'm working on a different computer than usual on account of I'm moving back to North America on Wednesday!


	10. Yule

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> double extra special kudos to my beta, gabsc, on account of i usually give chapters a second proof myself but my whole brain is just! gone! i moved back to vancouver and i am So Tired y'all it is hot and i've been working on my dissertation and i'm a whole hot mess.
> 
> anyway! gemma minutes in this chapter! gemma is best girl.
> 
> also ahahahaha speaking of my brain not working: sorry this chapter is like two days late i'm just stupid! please enjoy it anyway!

Harry has to bat Sirius’s hands away before he tries to straighten Harry’s collar for the fifth time in about ten minutes. “It’s _fine_ , Sirius.”

“Well, if you’re sure,” Sirius mutters, looking a little hurt. “I just want you to look your best.”

“I do,” Harry says. “I’m sure I look fine, and anyway, they’re not going to care _that_ much about what I’m wearing. Most of them will be looking at you!”

“Excuse me for being a bit anxious,” Sirius says. “This is more or less your society debut, you know. I’m surprised _you’re_ not more nervous.”

Harry shrugs. “I know some of the people who’ll be there already, and I can deal with the rest.” Hopefully. Not for the first time, Harry wonders if he shouldn’t have tried harder to discourage Sirius from coming along with him to the Farley Yule Ball. He’d made it clear when he’d written to Sirius that the invitation extended to him only reluctantly, but Sirius had been pretty determined to come. Two weeks of letters back and forth about it had only yielded a very annoyed Hedwig, so Harry had given up and told Farley just before they left for the holiday that he and Sirius would both be coming.

Truthfully, having the support to fall back on if something does happen is welcome, though it’ll make conversations with people like the Flints and the Malfoys—who Gemma had warned him would likely be in attendance, despite her lobbying her mother not to invite them. Harry’s not especially excited to have to talk to people who’d seen him kneeling in front of the Dark Lord only a few months ago with Sirius standing right there, but he’s pretty sure he can count on their own senses of self-preservation to keep them from doing or saying anything that would lead to their exposing him.

And coming together means that they’d been able to run the gauntlet of a short-order high-quality tailor together in order to acquire the robes they currently wore together as well. They’d only had a few days to get themselves together: Harry returned from Hogwarts on the 18th, and the Yule Ball was on the night of the solstice; fortunately, with magic and a few extra Galleons even such a quick turnaround on tailoring was made possible, and both Harry and Sirius had new clothes. They weren’t as matching as they had been for the Wizengamot session in August, because Harry had been invited as himself rather than as Heir Black, and Sirius was coming as _his_ plus-one rather than the other way around. That meant that while Sirius was, of course, dressed in the colours of the House of Black, his robe a traditional cut made from shimmering obsidian fabric, embroidered with angular patterns in silver thread all down its front, Harry wore black only as an accent to the House of Potter’s dark red. Specifically, his had his over-robe open over a muggle-style white shirt, black trousers, and unadorned black silk waistcoat. A little more mature, Sirius had told him, and a definite statement at such a heavily pureblood event. But Harry had looked at himself in the tailor’s mirror, considered robe and jewelry and his hair, now long enough that it lay in something like order around his face, though he’d had a trim before it got long enough to tie back, and decided that it was the right mix. A hint of muggle fashion, but enough magic that he’ll fit in fine. And with the colours of House Potter around his shoulders, his father’s lily pendant under his shirt, and both his wands in their holsters, he feels ready for anything.

Now they’re just waiting for the clock to strike seven so that they can Floo to Farley Manor. Sirius had already spelled Harry’s clothing impermeable so that the ash wouldn’t stick, even if he tripped coming out of the fireplace as he often did, and so they’re quite ready to go. Sirius is anxious; Harry is just impatient.

“Are you going to be crazy all night?” Harry asks, glancing at the clock again; just a few more minutes. Remus will be back shortly after they leave, currently busy closing at the bookshop where he works part-time. “Because I’m leaving you alone if you are.”

Sirius rolls his eyes. “I’m not being _crazy_ ,” he says. “These people are cutthroat, pup, and don’t forget it for a minute. They’ll be sizing you up, and a misstep here could have serious consequences.”

“I _know_ ,” Harry says. “Honestly. It’s like that in Slytherin, too, you know.”

“I’ve heard you complain, but I’m sure this will be worse. Really: take it seriously, Harry.”

“I am.” Harry turns and fixes Sirius with his most sincere look. “I know how important this could be. We’ll have better luck in the Wizengamot if we don’t alienate the other side, right? So we have to play by their rules sometimes.”

Sirius nods. “I believe in you. Just… allow me my nerves, alright? These gatherings rarely went well for me when I was your age.”

“I promise I won’t muck it up,” Harry says, and when Sirius reaches out one arm, he goes easily into the half-hug, leaning against Sirius’s strength and borrowing some of it, using it to shore himself up. He’s not Occluding, except for the now ever-present level of mental organization that helps his recall, but he’s ready to call up his walls and slam shut his doors if it seems like he needs to. For now, though, he thinks he can rely on himself and on Sirius to keep his composure and do this right. More is riding on it than Sirius knows, and Harry’s determined to live up to his own expectations for himself as well as soothing Sirius’s worries.

“Alright,” Sirius says, letting Harry go after a long moment. “I think we’ll be on time if we go now.”

Indeed, the clock is about to strike 7 o’clock, so Sirius goes to the fireplace and murmurs the incantation that will allow a single traveller through the wards on the Floo; Harry will go first, and Sirius will have to cast the spell again for himself once Harry’s gone through. There’s no fire in the fireplace at the moment, so Harry goes to stand on the tiles with the fist-full of Floo powder that he takes from the jar on the mantlepiece.

“Ready?” Sirius asks, his hand still resting on the mantle.

“Yup,” Harry says, and takes a deep breath just in case. “Farley Manor!”

He throws down the Floo powder and green flame flares up around him; his heart skips a beat even as he’s whirled away into light and darkness, swirling confusingly along through the magical pathway. It’s both more and less disorienting to Floo while fully conscious than it had been to do it half-concussed and bleeding. He can see more clearly, but the sickening sensation is clearer too—and so are the memories of the last trip he’d taken through the Floo. Before he can completely forget himself, though, he’s unceremoniously flung from the fireplace on the other end, and takes a few stumbling steps forward. He doesn’t trip in the fireplace, but he very nearly loses his balance as his toe catches the edge of a rug just in front of him. It’s only luck that he manages to keep his feet.

“Harry!” calls Gemma’s familiar voice, and Harry blinks hard a few times to clear his vision and dispel dizziness before looking up to see her standing not far in front of him, her hands stretched out to catch him if he’d fallen. Standing just behind and to her side is an older man about her height and with her strawberry blond hair—her father, Lord Farley, or so Harry has to assume. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, straightening. “Just not good at Flooing—sorry about that.”

“No need to apologize,” she says, and comes over to place a steadying hand on his shoulder. “Is—“

As she begins to speak, Harry hears the fire flare behind him again, and turns to watch Sirius step gracefully out of the green flames with no sign of Harry’s own disorientation and lack of coordination.

“Ah,” Gemma says, and lets go of Harry’s shoulder to make a deep curtsey to Sirius. Interestingly, Harry notices, she seems to be wearing partially muggle fashion herself: though she wears a magical Heir’s short tunic in her House’s forest green and a white woman’s over-robe, she’s wearing muggle-style skirts. Her hair, usually tied back in a plain high ponytail, is coiled up into an elegant style; she looks like the Heir and noblewoman that she is. “Lord Black, welcome.”

“Good of you to remember your proper manners,” Gemma’s father says, approaching as well, and he echoes Gemma’s bow—to Harry first, and then to Sirius. “Lord Black; Heir Black. Be welcome to the home of our House.”

“Sorry, father,” Gemma mutters, and she makes her curtsey to Harry as well.

“Thank you for your welcome and your hospitality, Lord Farley,” Sirius replies, returning the bow. “I only feel sorry not to have been able to meet your House properly before now. But I thank you on behalf of the House of Black for the extension of your goodwill to my Heir.”

“It was the least we could do,” Lord Farley says, “given his friendship with our own Heir.”

Gemma and Harry exchange an exasperated glance, and Gemma cuts in, “Indeed, friendship—and I would like to hear from my _friend_ how his first few days of holiday have been. May I be excused, father, from greeting further guests for the moment?”

He sighs in a restrained way, but with a wave of his hand dismisses her, and smiling Harry offers Gemma his arm. She accepts it with a returned smile, though his height next to hers makes for a slightly awkward position; Harry shoots a forbidding glance over his shoulder at Sirius, who falls in behind them and would probably be chuckling at the image if he were any less constrained by manners at the moment—he’s got that glint in his eye.

“So,” Gemma says, as they walk out of the receiving room in which their Floo was installed and into a large foyer with a high ceiling and a wide staircase that leads up to a set of open double doors, from which light and music stream. “How _have_ your first few days of break been?”

“Restful,” Harry says honestly. “It’s easier to wake up in the morning when there’s some natural light.”

“True enough,” Gemma agrees. “And after tonight the days will begin getting longer again! That will be nice.”

“And it’s a relief not to be dealing with Umbridge all the time.”

Gemma laughs. “Tell me. You seem recovered.” And she glances down toward his left hand, bandage-free at present—which had been a real quandary, one that had only occurred to Harry a week or so before term let out. Fortunately, however, that had been just enough time to owl-order a cosmetic potion that was advertised would cover blemishes and spots. With Gemma’s Dittany treatment _finally_ closing the wounds, he’d been able to rub a tiny dab of the cosmetic over the scars. He’d nearly been sunk anyway, because Remus had clearly noticed the scent of it—he’d given Harry a look up and down after their reunion hug on the platform at King’s Cross, his nostrils flaring a little, but then he’d just given him another look, this one knowing, and said nothing. Probably he’d assumed Harry was actually hiding spots.

“It’s nice not to feel frustrated all the time,” Harry says in an agreeable tone, as if that’s what she’d been talking about. “You seem more cheerful too, Gemma.”

“I am,” she says, and smiles. “Things have been looking up a bit lately, I suppose.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

By then, they’re drawing close to the door, and Gemma steps away from Harry to turn and look over at Sirius. “Lord Black,” she says, “you and your Heir should go together into the room. I should return to my father. Enjoy the ball, and, Harry, I’ll come find you later, hm?”

“That sounds good,” Harry says with a nod, and Gemma sweeps off in a rustle of skirts.

Once she’s gone, Sirius turns to Harry and grins. “I’d forgotten how much I liked her,” he says. “She was a good student—she has a lot of potential.”

“She’s very smart,” Harry says. “I’ve been lucky to have her on my side.”

“No kidding. Come on, let’s go face the music—ha!” And with his barking laugh ringing in the foyer, Sirius turns and steps toward the doors. Harry goes at his side, and they walk together through the doorway and into a brightly-lit ballroom. Above their heads, crystalline chandeliers hang, refracting magical light around the room in rainbow shards, casting warm colour everywhere. The walls are hung with tapestries depicting magical creatures, either at peace or, in the cases of dangerous creatures, in battle with wixen. And of course, the floor of the ballroom is filled with people. From the doorway Harry feels like he can only grasp half the scope of the crowd; there are too many people in sweeping robes of every colour, some lavishly embellished or accessorized with extravagant jewelry, hairstyles, or both. He glimpses, here and there, faces he recognizes: Marcus Flint lurking in a corner, watching the door; Lucius Malfoy holding court near the middle of the room; Higgs, Warrington, and Hussain standing together in a small clump near the refreshment table. There are surely others he knows about too, but he can’t see any of them at a glance.

“Where shall we begin, pup?” Sirius asks, also looking around. Heads have turned their direction, and many then ducked close together to whisper. Unsurprising; for all Sirius had been forced to court _some_ Dark-leaning Families and Houses to maintain Ancient and Noble status, he’d not appeared at many events like this.

Harry hesitates for a moment, then says, “I’d like to greet my friends, first, if that’s alright.”

“Certainly. Lead on.”

Harry does so, cutting across the floor and nodding politely to the few folks he recognizes in the crowd as he passes, mostly Wizengamot Peers whose faces he remembers, if not necessarily their names. He heads first for Higgs, Warrington, and Hussain, and reintroduces them to Sirius as Lord Black instead of Professor Black, after which Sirius makes his excuses and goes to find some conversation of his own. Harry stays and chats for a while, sharing dismay with Higgs and Warrington about the loss of Quidditch this year, and, careful to seem casual, mentions the pick-up game he’d played with Diggory and the others in November. There hadn’t yet been another, the weather uncooperative, but Harry suggests to his older friends that there might be another few games in the spring, if they’re lucky enough to gather by chance again; Higgs and Warrington both seem enthused. Hussain is quiet, often glancing at the door, and Harry expects that she’s waiting for Gemma. But it’s nice to catch up briefly, and Harry feels bolstered again by knowing his allies are here as he steps away and heads toward one of the conversations that he expects to be more difficult. He glances around to locate Sirius and finds him talking to Amaryllis Greengrass, Daphne and Astoria’s mother and the current Heir; things seem amicable enough, and with the assurance that Sirius isn’t going to say anything egregious to anyone, Harry turns and makes his way toward the corner where he’d spotted Marcus Flint earlier.

There are already more people in the ballroom than when Harry and Sirius had arrived a short while ago, so it takes him a minute to pick through the crowd, and pointedly avoids the area near the centre of the room where Lucius Malfoy has gathered several Heads of Families and Houses around himself. He winds past various people, a greater portion of whom he doesn’t recognize than when they’d arrived; apparently most of the Peers had made a point to be early or precisely on time, where others were less concerned, or perhaps _more_ concerned with fashionable lateness than they were with adherence to protocol. Whatever the reason, Harry marks faces in his mind but is careful not to catch anyone’s eye for too long, wary of getting drawn into a conversation with strangers without Sirius there to back him up.

Finally, however, he breaks out of the bulk of the crowd and finds Flint where he’d been before, still watching the door, though now in the company of Adrien Pucey. He notices Harry moving in his direction quickly, and nods as he approaches.

“Heir Flint,” Harry says, and makes a polite bow, then a slightly shallower one to Pucey. “And Pucey. Hello.”

“Heir Black.” Flint makes a bow back, equally polite, Pucey following. “Surprised to see you here.”

“Gemma invited me. It seemed like… a good opportunity,” Harry says. “Though Lord Black did insist on tagging along—a bit overprotective, you understand.”

“Prudent of the Lord to keep a close eye on his Heir,” Flint says, “but I can imagine it being annoying.”

“A little. But I know it comes from a place of care.” Harry shrugs, negligent. “What can you do?”

“Not much.” Flint’s smile is sharp. “Have you been formally introduced to my father, Potter?”

Harry blinks. “No. Though, ah, I’d welcome an introduction.” He really, really would not; he’d not expected Flint to come on so strong. The little verbal dance they’d engaged in was one thing, but offering an introduction to his father… and not even any polite smalltalk like what he’d been making earlier with Higgs and Warrington. It seemed… brazen in a way that Harry wasn’t used to seeing from taciturn Flint.

“Pucey, keep an eye out for Lord Nott?” Flint says, and when Pucey nods, says to Harry. “Come on.”

Harry follows him back into the crowd, and with some resignation realizes quickly that they’re headed for Malfoy’s crowd. He looks around again for Sirius as they walk, but he’s vanished into the crowd somewhere—or, Harry thinks, seeing that the shape of the crowd has shifted to make space for an opening dance floor, maybe Sirius has gone to stoke his reputation as a flirt. He and Remus don’t exactly _hide_ their relationship, but Harry knows that certain people are still under the impression that Sirius is a bachelor and a bit of a rake, as he’d apparently been in his youth, and that Sirius has made some effort to keep it that way. Easier than dealing with people who would disapprove of his committed long-term relationship with a werewolf, with whom he’d never be able to conceive a blood Heir to the dying Black line.

For whatever reason, though, it means Sirius is nowhere to be seen, and so Harry is on his own as Flint leads him to the edge of the gathering of Lords, Ladies, and Heads who stand in the area around Lord Malfoy and, Harry now sees, Lord Nicodemus Flint. They aren’t precisely standing in a circle; there are too many of them for that, a good dozen at least, and they’d have created a large circle of empty space in the middle of the ballroom, which would have been very rude. But the way they stand makes it clear that they’re engaged only with one another and listening as well to the conversation of the highest-ranking Lords at the centre of the group. A faction; a bulwark against the rest of the crowd. But Flint—Heir Flint—cuts through the group easily with Harry at his side, and comes to his father’s side without hesitation. Lord Flint and Lord Malfoy both turn to look down their noses at Harry, as does Lord Malfoy’s wife, who stands at his side—though Draco is notably absent. Narcissa Malfoy, Harry observes as he makes a bow to them all, doesn’t look a great deal like her sister or her cousin, but there’s definitely something of the House of Black in her aristocratic good looks.

“Father,” Flint says, “I would like to formally introduce Harry Potter, Heir Black. You might remember my mentioning him in letters last year.”

“Indeed,” Lord Flint says. His voice is calm and low, similar to his son’s though not as harsh. He’s equally unhandsome, too, but has a commanding presence. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance properly at last, Heir Black.”

“And mine to make yours, Lord Flint,” Harry says, and then turns to bow to the Malfoys as well. “A pleasure to see you again as well, Lord Malfoy—and to meet you, Lady Malfoy.”

Lord Malfoy nods politely, but Lady Malfoy returns the bow with a tidy curtsey, executed well even in restrictive traditional women’s robes, which are gleaming white and silver; she looks a little like a ghost in her formal clothes, pale from the top of her blonde head to the tips of her pale fingers. “A pleasure indeed to finally meet my cousin,” she says. “And did I see that you managed to coax along Lord Black?”

“Yes,” Harry says. He’s not sure where she’s going with this, and isn’t sure either that he’s excited to find out. “I understand that he’s been a rare attendee at events like this.”

“Often for lack of invitation,” Lord Flint says bluntly. “Sirius Black is not precisely… of a shared temperament with many of those in this crowd.”

Harry considers that for a moment, and then says, “I think you might find yourself surprised. His temperament is more like yours than you’d think, Lord Flint; it’s a lack of shared politics that’s the issue.”

“And a political division can disguise many things held in common,” Lady Malfoy interjects smoothly. “Like blood, for example—so as I said, it is a pleasure to meet a cousin. Please, I hope you will call me Narcissa.”

_That’s_ interesting. “Of course, Narcissa,” Harry says quickly. “Though only if you’ll call me Harry.”

“It would be my honour.” And she smiles, seeming sincere. Next to her, Lord Malfoy looks ever so slightly sour; Lord Flint and his son both wear a similar stoic expression. “Perhaps later you’ll have the opportunity to greet your other cousin; or I’m sure he’d be very happy for a dance.”

“I shall take that under consideration,” she says, and though her hand is still wrapped delicately around her husband’s elbow, he can tell that she has _some_ agenda of her own. Perhaps simply a reconciliation with the House of Black? But who knows—Harry doesn’t know her, can’t read her, and has more dangerous wixen facing him at the moment in any case.

So he turns back to Lord Flint and Lord Malfoy, and says, “In truth, the opportunity to meet you and others of _all_ political mindsets was one of the reasons I so eagerly accepted Lady Farley’s invitation.”

“Oh?” says Malfoy.

“I’m still new to the magical world, really,” Harry says, bashful and earnest. “And though I’ve certainly formed some opinions already, and I take Sirius’s part in a lot of things… well, there’s always more to know, isn’t there?”

“Indeed there is,” Lord Flint says. “You’re smart for your age, to be willing to see other perspectives.”

“If there’s anything I’ve learned from being in Slytherin,” Harry says, “it’s that there’s always more than one side of the story.”

“Being in Slytherin but having Gryffindor friends, according to my son,” Malfoy interjects, an eyebrow raised. “More than one side of the story there may be, but no one person can be on all sides.”

Harry shrugs, trying to channel Sirius at his most innocent and guileless. “No,” he says. “But there are advantages to having… friends in alternative places, I suppose you could say. And to no one really knowing what side of the story is _your_ side. I’ve always thought that you knew a thing or two about that, Lord Malfoy.”

Malfoy’s eyes go narrow and hard, searching Harry’s face; Harry just smiles back. “Indeed,” he finally says. “Life is often full of ambiguities.”

“As is politics,” Harry agrees cheerfully. “One of the reasons I don’t tend to like them so much—I like to pretend that it’s possible to know right from wrong. But I suppose admitting that it’s more complicated than that is part of growing up, isn’t it?”

“And you seem to be growing well,” Lord Flint says. “I look forward to seeing what you become, Heir Black.” There’s a subtle emphasis on his title and the name of the House: Harry isn’t Harry Potter here, the son of a muggleborn and a blood traitor. He’s _Heir Black_ , of the House of Black, one of the darkest and purest of the Ancient and Noble Houses. And they see that in him—though he’s not sure yet whether they’ve decided to _believe_ it. Maybe because Harry doesn’t believe it himself, and isn’t afraid of letting that show. There’s more than one way to create ambiguity, after all, and only one of them is calculated doublespeak.

Harry, still smiling, just bows, first to the two Lords and the Lady, and then, shallower, to the younger Flint. “I appreciate your faith and your curiosity, Lord Flint. For now, I think I had best head off and find my guardian before he gets himself in trouble. Narcissa, I hope you’ll find us later?”

“Certainly,” she says, and Harry accepts her curtsy and the bows of the Dark Heads of House before he slips away, back into the crowd. Carefully he ignores the heavy gazes of those in the crowd surrounding Lords Malfoy and Flint; he doesn’t want to talk to anyone else who’s probably—or certainly—a Death Eater tonight if he can manage it. To his relief, he seems likely to get that wish, because he manages to spot Sirius quickly once he’s free of the thickest part of the crowd. He’s on his own now, no longer talking to Lady Greengrass, and is sipping a champagne flute and looking around at the crowd. When he spots Harry, his expression brightens and he heads in Harry’s direction; they meet somewhere in the middle.

“Harry,” Sirius says, as soon as they’re close, and wraps one arm around his shoulders to guide him over toward a wall where they can talk a little more easily. The volume in the room has risen as music started up for the dance floor. “I was wondering where you’d got to.”

“I got snagged by Marcus Flint,” Harry says, and doesn’t have to pretend dismay. “I made nice with the Dark Houses for a minute. You’d have been proud, I didn’t say anything stupid at all—I think, anyway. At least Malfoy didn’t make too many snobby faces at me.”

Sirius’s face is doing something complicated, caught between amusement and pride and worry. “Well, I’m glad you held your own,” he says, “though I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help. Is the brattiest—I mean, youngest Malfoy present?”

Harry shakes his head. “Not unless he’s slunk off somewhere. Narcissa Malfoy is nice, though. Or she’s at least good at pretending.”

“Interesting,” Sirius says. “Tell me about it?”

Harry relates the exchange he’d had with her, including her apparent willingness to re-identify herself with the House of Black. Sirius makes a considering noise, hearing that, and agrees with Harry’s earlier thought: that she’s clearly got something up her sleeve.

“Cissy always was the sneakiest of the sisters,” Sirius says. “She’s certainly got a head on her to match Lucy’s, which is both good and bad. Hm.” He shakes his head. “Well, so long as she doesn’t try to _recruit_ me, I’d be happy to speak with her.”

“I don’t think that would happen,” Harry says, amused. “They don’t think much of you, do they?”

Sirius shakes his head. “Being the ah, white sheep as it were, means that a lot of them like to forget that I had just as strict a pureblood upbringing as all the rest of them. I know all the airs and graces, all the obscure laws and rites of blood… but I don’t act like that’s all I care about, so they think I don’t care at all.”

“More fool them,” Harry says, knowing exactly how good Sirius is at wielding the power that being pureblood gives. Politics is only part of it; a whole other part is his deft skill with ritual and with family magic. But they’ll learn.

“Fools indeed!” Sirius crows, and downs the last of his champagne glass. “Alright, kiddo—let’s see how much you remember from your dancing lessons, hm?”

Harry groans. The lessons over the summer hadn’t been _too_ bad, but he’s pretty sure he’s forgotten most of it. “Fine,” he sighs, put-upon, and follows a laughing Sirius to the dance floor.

It’s a little silly for them to dance together, but it gives Sirius a chance to put Harry through his paces and remind him what he’s doing. They just do one song’s worth of spinning around the dance floor together, Harry trying not to step on Sirius’s toes while Sirius leads, and then they pause at the edge of the floor to applaud the band. The next song is just starting up when Sirius pats Harry’s shoulder, says, “I’m going to go see if I can’t steal Cissy from her odious husband,” and summarily abandons Harry again.

“Got abandoned, did you?” someone says from beside Harry, and he glances over to find that he’s been joined by none other than Theo.

“Theo!” he says, pleasantly surprised, and then seeing the crest of the House of Nott worn proudly on Theo’s chest, remembers himself. “Or, Heir Nott, I suppose.”

Theo waves him off with a gesture similar to Blaise’s. “Oh, don’t start. I’m surprised to see you here.”

“Gemma’s mum invited me,” Harry says. “And I brought Sirius as my plus-one. I think she wanted to get a sense of me, not that I’ve seen her yet.”

“Well, even just showing up says a lot,” Theo says. “And I’m sure she’s watching for who you talk to, and so on.”

“Her business, not mine. I’m just here to, uh. Eat the snacks, avoid dancing, and talk to Malfoy’s father, I guess.”

Theo raises an eyebrow. “You talked to Lord Malfoy?”

“Flint dragged me over to meet his dad; Malfoy was there.” Harry shrugs. “Honestly, meeting Narcissa Malfoy was more interesting.”

“You just got lucky—got out of there before my dad showed up,” Theo says. “We only just got here.”

“Can’t resist my company, huh?” Harry says, and laughs.

Theo just rolls his eyes and gives Harry a shove. “You’re just the first person I saw that I already knew.”

“Fair enough,” Harry says, and then gestures at the dance floor. “Well, since we’re here and all, wanna dance?”

Theo looks out at the floor, then at Harry, and then says, “Sure.”

The two of them take a slightly awkward turn around the dance floor, tense until Harry nearly trips over Theo’s feet and lands them both in a heap, and then shared laughter carries them into an easier rhythm. It’s a little strange to dance with Theo, but ultimately fun; he’s a good dancer and confident in the lead, to Harry’s relief, his hands steady on Harry’s waist and clasped in his own hand. When the song ends, they end up back at the edge of the dance floor near where they were before, and disengage to bow, both grinning.

“You’re good,” Harry says, as by mutual silent agreement they head for the refreshment table to grab a drink. “I still feel so clumsy.”

“Well, you’ve only been learning for what, a year?” Theo asks. “You’ll get it eventually.”

“Thanks,” Harry says. “Though I’m not sure I’m that confident.”

To Harry’s pleasure, there are plentiful drinks and snacks, and they both grab glasses of juice and little paper boats filled with some sort of… vegetable crisp thing, and go to loiter by the end of the table. There’s not really anywhere to sit, but they lean against the wall side-by-side and enjoy the break, talking lightly about Quidditch and their hopes for Christmas, about Snape’s overly-long winter homework assignment, and about how nice it is to get away from Umbridge for a while. Once Harry’s juice and snacks are gone, he glances around at the crowd and, not seeing Sirius, says, “Was there anyone else you were hoping to find?”

Theo shrugs one shoulder, tilting his head. “Blaise isn’t going to be here—he and his mother are back in Rome, of course. Not really anyone else I care about talking with, to be honest, though if Farley and her gang are around I should probably say hello.”

“Sounds good.”

The two of them make their way side-by-side through the crowd, and eventually Harry spots Warrington and Higgs a short distance away, closer to the dance floor. He points them out, and then leads Theo over in their direction. Gemma and Hussain are nowhere to be seen, but he still greets them again warmly and listens as they greet Theo and exchange pleasantries. Perhaps predictably, they end up talking about Quidditch again, really the only thing all four of them have in common, and a few songs’ worth of time pass before Gemma appears out of the crowd, her face flushed and smiling, tugging Hussain behind her by the hand.

“Oh, Harry!” Gemma says. “I’m so sorry—Ayesha and I were on the dance floor. How are you, how are you enjoying the party? And, hello, Nott—pleasure to see you.”

Theo nods and offers a bow, while Harry says, “I’m good. It’s a lovely party. My compliments to your mum.”

Gemma nods. “Thanks. She’s quite pleased with herself—has she pinned you down yet?”

“No, but I’m sure I’ll speak to her at some point.”

“No doubt,” Gemma says, laughing. “I’m sure she’ll appear to attempt to inveigle you into something political at some point.”

Harry tucks away _inveigle_ to ask Sirius about later, but he understands the gist. “I’ll watch myself.”

“Never a bad idea in this crowd,” Higgs says, amused. “Saw you talking with Lord Flint earlier—Marcus snagged you, I take it?”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “Not my first choice of company, of course.”

“I can imagine.”

“I’m really still a bit of a fish out of water when it comes to all this,” Harry says, with a gesture at their grand surroundings. “But I know how to be polite, at least, and that means saying yes when people want to introduce you to their very scary fathers.”

That draws a laugh, and Higgs starts up with an anecdote about the single most terrifying introduction he’d ever had to endure—hilariously, in Harry’s opinion, to Augusta Longbotton—and they chat for a while about the horrors of polite society. Eventually though a more upbeat piece of music starts up, and Warrington smiles and says, “Gemma—come dance with me? My father will have my head if I don’t ask at least once.”

“Oh, fine,” she says with a put-upon sigh, but her smile belies it and she takes his hand happily enough.

Harry, watching them go, hesitates a moment and then decides to suck it up and turns to Hussain. “Would you like to dance, Hussain?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Interesting. Certainly, Potter.”

He offers her his arm and leads the way to the dance floor. They have to wait a moment to find a gap in the dancers where they can join the dance, but fortunately it’s a pattern Harry knows and he’s able to lead with reasonable confidence. For a long moment, Hussain doesn’t say anything, just studying him as they proceed through the steps. Then she says, “Why ask me to dance, Potter?”

He shrugs, then resettles his hand in hers. “We don’t talk much, but you’re important to Gemma, and she is to you, too, I think.”

“And you care about what’s important to her?” Her look sharpens a little as she speaks.

Abruptly, he realizes she might have mistaken his words. “Not like that. She’s—I mean, uh, she’s pretty and all, but—“

Hussain laughs, just a little; the soft sound startles Harry enough that he shuts up. She’s usually so reserved. “Alright, alright. I should have realized it was silly as soon as I said it, I suppose.”

“She’s… not my type,” Harry says. Not that he’s thought about it much, but he’s heard ribbing among some of the other third years about crushes and so on. He’s just not interested; he doesn’t have _time_.

“Fair enough,” Hussain says. “Do you prefer men, Potter?”

“I don’t think I prefer anyone, right now,” he says. “We’re still young, and… there’s a lot of other things to worry about at the moment.”

She just nods, her gaze going distant, and then she looks back at him and she’s all of a sudden sharp again, her brown eyes dark and piercing as she meets his gaze. “Gemma is a good person,” she says, “and you’re right, I do care about her. I don’t want to see her get hurt.”

“Neither do I,” Harry says. “She’s my friend, and I’ll do what I can to protect my friends.”

“Good.” Hussain glances around, checking who’s dancing near them; Harry follows her gaze and notes that the other couples closest to them seem absorbed in the dance or in one another, so it’s not a surprise when she feels safe enough to lower her voice and say, “She’s going to fight in this war of yours, Potter—I wish I could stop her, but I can’t. I can’t protect her, either. So if you have any surety you can offer me—“

“I’ll talk to some people,” Harry assures quickly. It’s not a surprise to hear that Gemma wants to do _something_ ; she’s the type not to sit idle. It’s one of the reasons he trusts her so much. “I can’t promise anything, Hussain. My position is complicated. But I’ll do what I can.”

She nods, approving, and says, “Good. Thank you. I—I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Harry understands; he feels the same desperation to see Neville and Hermione safe. There’s even less that he can do for them, though. But with Gemma… well, at least he can ensure she has backup if she’s determined to fight.

The dance ends, and they disengage to exchange bow and curtsey. Hussain really does look elegant, wearing a floor-length dress in a green so dark it’s nearly black, with white lace at the collar, sleeves, and hem, complimented by a forest green hijab, also embroidered. Though her dress hides almost all of her skin, it doesn’t disguise her grace, and the green of her headscarf is a pointed match to Gemma’s tunic. Harry and Hussain rejoin the group, and he observes how well-matched they truly are. A study in opposites in some ways: Gemma is taller and broader, blonde and pale, open with her smiles and broader in her gestures though never anything less than polite; Hussain is petite and dark-skinned, her hair always covered and ever in floor-length skirts, much more reserved in manner as well as dress. But next to Gemma Hussain smiles more easily, and Gemma’s attention is always a little bit on Hussain when she’s near.

One day, Harry thinks, listening quietly, he’ll have that too. Maybe, anyway. With his place in the war, it’s as likely he’ll die before he can fall in love… but he can dream. He can dream of having what Gemma and her girlfriend have, what Sirius and Remus have, what his parents had before the Death Eaters came. What Neville’s parents had, the bond of love that led them to sacrifice their lives for one another and for him. Maybe it’s morbid to aspire to having someone he would die for, but truthfully, there are _already_ people he would die for. Less than a year ago at Easter he’d been ready to die for Neville, and he knows that he would throw himself in front of an _Avada Kedavra_ before watching Sirius die. But dying only protects once, he reminds himself; living, he can protect them again and again.

So he’ll live. He’ll fight, the way Gemma wants to, and he’ll do it to keep those he loves safe.

The night wears on, Harry drifting in and out of his group of friends. He dances with Theo a couple more times, both of them laughing. Sirius finds him again a few hours into the night and they do a tour of the room, greeting a few other people who Harry hadn’t spoken to yet. Lady Michaela Bulstrode is there, sadly without Millicent, and Harry introduces himself politely, Sirius watching on in the background. She doesn’t have much to say to him, to his relief, and after that Harry insists that Sirius dance with him again so that he can stop _talking_ to people for a while; Sirius obliges with a laugh.

Eventually, Harry starts to yawn, and after the second or third time he has to apologize to Sirius, Sirius says, “I think you’re about cooked, pup.”

Harry considers, and then, sheepish, says, “Yeah, probably.”

“Alright. Well, let’s go make our goodbyes to our host—I just saw her near the door—and get you home to bed, hm?”

“Sounds good.”

Harry’s just on the right side of too tired to be embarrassed about leaning on Sirius, so he keeps his own feet as they make their way through the crowd. Luckily, when they come to the end of the ballroom Gemma is standing with her parents, having a quiet but fierce conversation.

“Should we interrupt?” Sirius asks quietly, seeing that, and Harry peers at the conversation going on, trying to judge Gemma’s body language.

After a moment, he says, “Yeah.” He’s not _exactly_ sure what’s going on, but he doesn’t think interrupting will be _bad_ , anyway.

So Sirius steps up toward the Farleys, and when they break off talking and turn to him, he bows. “I apologize,” he says, “for interrupting. Only, I’d forgotten how exhausting these shindigs could be and would very much like to return home to bed, so we’ve a need to make our goodbyes.”

Lady Farley had raised a delicate eyebrow at ‘shindig’, but only returns a curtsey and says, “Of course, Lord Black. I apologize—I had meant to greet you and your Heir earlier.”

“Not a problem,” Sirius says, smiling what Harry recognizes as his ‘look how charming I am’ smile. “You have a lot of guests tonight! I’m sure your attention has been devoted to worthy subjects.”

“Indeed,” she says, smiling. To Harry’s eye, it looks insincere; Gemma’s mother, tall and thin and polite in a practiced way, reminds Harry a great deal of his Aunt Petunia. “Well, I’m very glad you came to say hello—and goodbye. I hope you had a pleasant evening.”

“Very pleasant,” Sirius says. “Your taste is impeccable, Lady Farley. And your home is beautiful.”

At that she looks more genuinely pleased, and nods her head. “Thank you.”

"And I appreciate your inviting Harry," he continues. "I'm aware that you likely don't think much of me," and he waves her off before she can demur. "It's fine, I don't care. But your interest in my Heir is noted. The House of Black has struck out independent of past allies, that's true—but no Ancient and Noble House can be a monolith. We must be aware of all paths, and I see that awareness in my Heir, though still growing. But no Lord, no matter how powerful, can create that awareness on his own, and so I am dependent on the generosity of other Houses in holding out their hand to my Heir in order to nurture his knowledge of the scope of our wider world."

She looks taken aback, but nods. "I... thank you for your words, Lord Black. I feel the same—that my Heir should know and understand _all_ of the world, which is why I have not... limited her as perhaps I might have, had I chosen a more traditional style of upbringing."

Sirius inclines his head, glances at Gemma, and says in a grave tone, "I was raised in a strict household—to the point of abuse, in fact. Walburga Black was quite insane, and mistook tradition for necessity. But it is possible to be both traditional _and_ give your children the freedom to learn, live, and love as they will--a line I'm trying to learn to walk myself. I became a parent at a rather... delicate stage in the process of upbringing, as you can probably imagine."

"Hey," Harry says mildly, making Sirius laugh.

"Don't pretend that being adopted when you were was anything other than a challenging transition," Sirius says fondly. He looks back at Lady Farley. "You have raised an excellent daughter, as I learned last year at Hogwarts and from the things my Heir has told me. I sympathize with the difficulties of raising someone with a keen mind and a strong sense of honour; they learn to think for themselves in ways that are hard to argue with rather too young."

She's gone back to looking a little sour. Harry wasn't raised in a pureblood household and isn't a parent, of course, so he's sure he missed some of the undertones of Sirius's speech--but he knows he got most of it, and he wants to grin. Gemma looks happy, and Lady Farley doesn't seem to have much of an argument, for all she might not like Sirius's implications.

"Thank you for your wisdom, Lord Black," she says, and turns abruptly to Harry himself. "Heir Black, I apologize again for my earlier failure to greet you—I hope my daughter acted well as hostess?"

"Oh, yes," Harry says, probably laying the earnestness on a bit too thick if the amused expression on Sirius's face is anything to go by. "Gemma's wonderful, as always, Lady Farley. I'm very lucky to have her as my friend."

"Quite," Lady Farley says. "She speaks so warmly of you in her letters, you see—and after our brief encounter in August I had hoped to get to know you a little better. But perhaps another time."

"I'd be honoured," Harry says. "If Gemma is anything to go by, the acquaintance of any member of the House of Farley is a valuable thing to have. She's been an excellent guide and patron to me at Hogwarts, and I only hope to be able to return the favour some day—to help her as she's helped me."

"You've always been more than worthy of my help," Gemma says. "As Lord Black said: a young man with a keen mind and a strong sense of honour. It's a compliment that he sees the same in me."

Sirius tilts his head and smiles in acknowledgement. "I certainly see no less, Heir Farley. You honour your name and your House in all your actions."

She curtseys deeply, and then says, "But you were trying to get out of here. Perhaps I could escort you back to the Floo room?"

"Certainly," Sirius says, exchanges round of polite and meaningless pleasantries with Lord and Lady Farley, Harry following his lead, and then they're finally able to walk out of the hall with Gemma.

As soon as they're fully out of earshot and eye-line of her parents, Gemma releases a sigh. "I'm sorry about them," she says mildly to Harry, strolling down the hall toward the Floo room.

"It's alright," he says. "The Wizengamot is just... that, constantly, but with a thousand times more protocol—I've come to expect it, really."

She laughs. "You aren't wrong."

"Not at all," Sirius says, slinging an arm around Harry's shoulders. Harry takes the excuse to lean into him a little, letting tiredness seep the tension from his body. "You dance the political dance well, Heir Farley."

Gemma glances at him. "Gemma, please, my Lord."

"Then Sirius," he offers in return. "Though maybe not in public until you've graduated; I can imagine all the biddies in there gasping at the inappropriate familiarity."

"Of course," she says, smiling. "Merlin. May I just say, Sirius, that we miss you terribly at Hogwarts? I'm not sure what Harry's told you, but your replacement is _not_ up to your standard."

"I've heard tell," he says, dry. "Well, if you need resources to study from for your NEWT, feel free to owl me."

"Oh, that would be lovely," Gemma says. "I was genuinely concerned, but if you have any recommendations..."

"Plenty," he assures. "Umbridge might be a bint, but Pince isn't—for all she likes to pretend."

Gemma stifles a very unladylike snort in her fist, and then composes herself and opens the door to the Floo room, which they'd come to. She ushers them inside, and seems prepared to make her goodbyes at the door, but Harry gestures for her to close the door.

"Gemma," he says, and then puts a finger up to his lips and raises an eyebrow. She looks surprised, but draws her wand out of her sleeve and casts her muffling spell—this time the buzzing sound that the spell produces is nearly silent, unlike the time she'd cast it in front of Harry last year.

Sirius's eyebrows shoot up, surprised. "That's well done," he says. " _Muffliato_ , correct?"

"That's right, sir," she says, and then turns to Harry. "What's going on?"

"I figured I should seize the moment while I had it," he tells her. "Hussain told me that you're not planning to try to sit out the war."

She looks startled. "Really?"

"Should she not have?" Harry says. "Because I think I—well, we—can help you."

"I'm just surprised," she says. "She doesn't approve."

"She wants you to be protected," Harry says. "And I don't know if that's really possible, not for any of us, but... you can have help." And he turns to Sirius, who's watching them both with a measuring expression.

"Interesting," Sirius says. "Well, Gemma, Harry's right that it's probably me you should be talking to. But what is it that you hope to do?"

She shrugs, but she meets his eyes squarely. "At this stage, I don't know. We don't know yet what shape the war will take, unless there's something more happening than I know about... which is possible. Umbridge has banned all papers other than the Prophet from the school, and neither it nor my parents are always entirely honest."

"That's for certain," Sirius says, and runs a hand over his hair—it's tied back neatly, otherwise Harry is sure that he'd be running his hand through it. "No, things have been quiet, other than the breakout at Halloween. He's... preparing. And we're doing the same."

"That's what I thought. So, for the moment I'm not sure what I _can_ do—certainly nothing until I graduate. But when I'm free of Hogwarts, I'll be here," she says. There's a steel in her voice, in the straightness of her spine, that reminds Harry of what he sees in Neville when the lion in his shy friend rears up. "I'm not foolish enough to think that my blood will spare me, unlike my parents."

"No, you're right about that," Sirius says, with a sigh. "Not that anyone on the other side would talk about it, but blood didn't spare anyone last time, and it won't spare anything this time either—perhaps even less so. Guerilla tactics and fear-mongering failed Voldemort and his lackeys last time, and I suspect they'll be more willing this go 'round to spread mayhem."

She nods. "Which means open combat. I understand. I've been practicing duelling in my spare time, with those I can find who're willing to hide it from Umbridge." She cuts her eyes at Harry, but says nothing about his absenting himself entirely from their little club. "I'll be ready. Should I contact you after my graduation, or when the situation is clearer?"

"After you graduate," Sirius says firmly. "Dumbledore is of the opinion, and I agree, that schoolchildren should not be fighting in this war. Of course, I'm not as optimistic as him about our ability to keep Hogwarts safe entirely, which is why I taught you the way I did last year—but I won't abide child soldiers. My generation lost our innocence far too early, and yours is set to lose it even earlier. I would spare you if I can."

"I think all of us are thankful for your care," Gemma says, "and those who aren't don't understand what a gift it is. I look forward to your owl, Sirius. And to fighting at your side."

"And I at yours, Gemma," he says, and bows deeply: a bow of equals. She seems briefly taken aback, but steps forward once he's straightened to offer him her hand.

"I'm only the Heir," she says, "and can't promise anything on behalf of the House of Farley. But I and what resource I have are at your disposal, and when the time comes and I assume my place at the head of the family, I hope I'll be able to call the House of Black an ally."

Harry nods, grinning at her. "If Sirius won't promise that, I will."

"Good," she says, smiling back, and then waves her wand again and murmurs a _Finite Incantatem_. "Have an excellent Christmas, Harry, and a very happy new year. I'll see you back at Hogwarts in January—do try not to get in any trouble between now and then, hm?"

Sirius barks a laugh. "That's like asking chewing gum not to stick. But I'll keep an eye on him for you, Gemma."

"Oy, pot," Harry says, rolling his eyes. "We'll be looking out for _each other_ , thank you very much."

"Then I'm sure you'll arrive back at school safe," Gemma says. "Now off with you—curfew for third years is eleven pm!"

Both of them laugh at her playfully wagged finger, and then make their way swiftly to the Floo. The wards at the Doghouse will be closed again, but it's easy enough to Floo to the Leaky Cauldron and then Apparate from there, Sirius laying a Disillusionment Charm over them to hide their strange clothing from muggle gazes as they walk from the Apparition Point back to the flat. It's cold and heavily overcast in London, though luckily not currently raining, and it's in good spirits that they arrive home. Remus is sitting on the couch and rises to greet them, Sirius with a kiss and Harry with one of his enveloping hugs. Then, seeing Harry yawn once again, he bends to kiss Harry's forehead and tells him that they can fill him in in the morning.

"Thanks, Remus," Harry says sleepily. "G'night."

"Good night, pup," he says, and sends him off to change out of his party clothes and sleep.

* * *

Harry and Sirius do fill Remus in on everything that had happened at the ball over the few days spanning between the ball itself on the 21st and Christmas. It's interesting to compare stories from the periods that they'd been separated—Harry had mostly been with his friends, of course, though his story of being introduced to Lord Flint had caused Sirius to ask several concerned questions. But Sirius had done a good job of making the rounds, talking to members of various Dark and Grey Houses and Families. He'd gotten a good sense of the political temperature in the room—nervous, was what he'd decided was the feeling of many people, though hiding it well. Everyone was anxious to feel everyone else out. Harry'd gotten some of the same impression, but he isn't an entity in the world of magical politics in the way Sirius is, so he'd seen less of it.

Still, it's interesting to talk through what he _had_ seen and done, to hear Sirius's impressions—including about Gemma. It was gratifying to know that she'd find a place with Sirius and the others fighting on Dumbledore's side to stop Voldemort, and Sirius seemed enthused, for all that he and Remus had both expressed some sadness that "such young people" had to be involved.

"I'd hoped to protect you and your schoolmates better," Sirius had said at one point. "I'm sorry that we've failed."

Harry had just shrugged. "Not all of us _want_ to be protected, you know."

"No. But you still should be." And Sirius had kissed the top of his head and directed the conversation elsewhere.

They talk about other things, too: Umbridge and school politics, including Neville and Hermione's defence club. Harry admits to knowing about it, and then also to purposefully not joining.

"Umbridge pays too much attention to me," he says. "I'd either get them all caught, or she'd finally use me acting suspicious as an excuse to expel me, or... something."

"I'll have to do something about that woman," Sirius mutters, and Remus reaches out to pat his shoulder, though he doesn't disagree, which makes Harry suspicious. Not that he's interested in stopping them if they decide to... do something. Who knows. Between the two of them they're _far_ more creative than Harry could ever dream of being; he actually sort of looks forward to seeing what they come up with.

It’s nice to catch up and to relax. Harry loves Hogwarts, feels safe there, but… not like he does at the Doghouse. It’s warm and easy, and he laughs at Sirius’s jokes and Remus’s stories about the strange customers they’ve had at the bookshop leading up to Christmas. Harry, in turn, talks about his impromptu study dates with Luna Lovegood and the Quidditch match with Cedric, about how he’d gotten busy with homework—and Umbridge’s detentions—and sort of stopped spending time with Neville and Hermione and Ron but was back at it now, and about looking forward to the spring term. He has high hopes for some Weasley Twins pranks on Umbridge; he’s not _seen_ them scheming, but their restraint so far into term makes him suspect that they have big plans.

Christmas Day comes, and is pleasantly mellow. They have plans to make a visit to Saint Mungo’s tomorrow to see Harry’s parents, but for today they laze about in pyjamas and have a small exchange of gifts—Harry receives, among other things, sweets, a new planner from Hermione to replace the one from last year that he’d filled, some books, and a few pieces of jewelry, including a particularly nice leather cuff bracelet embossed with twining vines from Neville that sits perfectly just above his wand holster. Remus cooks dinner, ham and sweet potato and roasted brussels sprouts, with a nice bread pudding for desert, and Harry retires to his room full and happy—to find an owl waiting for him at his window.

Instantly nervous, Harry opens the window and lets the bird in, but it only drops its package on the bed and then takes off again, not waiting for a response. Uncertain if he’s feeling more or less nervous, Harry picks up the parcel and turns it over, inspecting it. His name is written on the outside of the packaging in Snape’s familiar spidery handwriting, and Harry lets out a breath. It might still be bad, but at least he now knows what kind of bad to suspect. Gingerly he pulls the dangling bit of twine to undo the bow around the package holding shut the paper. The item is a flat rectangle, and peeling back the paper reveals it to be a black box with a folded note stuck on top. He opens the note first, and reads, _Mr Potter. I am not usually one given to gifts, but I suspect you will find this useful in the coming days. Use it well._ Then Snape’s slanting signature. Harry remembers the gift of the Invisibility Cloak at Christmas in his first year, the similarity of that note and this one, and thinks that if whatever’s in the box is as helpful as the Cloak has been, he’ll owe Snape a great debt.

So he turns to the box, and carefully slides off the top. Within, nestled in fabric, is a knife—no, a dagger. The blade is maybe four inches long, double edged, and he doesn’t have to do anything as foolish as trying it against his finger to knows that it’s very, very sharp; the edge gleams in the low light of his bedside lamp. The metal has a wavering shine that might be from its forging or might be magic, and the handle has a plain guard and a simple hilt wrapped with black leather. When he picks it up and weighs it carefully in his hand, he finds that it fits his grip comfortably, with a little room to grow, and isn’t overly heavy. When he looks at the box again to return it to its place, he finds that there’s a sheath included, and a set of straps, and a moment of fiddling informs him that the straps are meant to bind the knife to some part of his body—his leg or his upper arm, he decides, depending on his clothing and whether or not he plans to wear the blade openly. Which he certainly isn’t, but he doesn’t have any idea how to wear it, and resigns himself to experimenting tomorrow with binding the blade to his ankle and keeping it hidden in his boot, or under his shirt at his back, maybe. But that’s for tomorrow, and tomorrow after their visit to the hospital, even, because Harry’s fairly sure that the wards on the Janus Thickey Ward won’t let in someone armed with anything other than a wand.

So he goes to sleep, and rises in the morning feeling fresh, if not ready for the day to come. He never _quite_ feels ready for visiting his parents, but he wouldn’t skip it for anything. Remus is already up when he goes for breakfast, and he makes himself a slice of toast and accepts a cup of tea happily, and they sit in the gentle morning quiet together and wait for Sirius to rouse himself. Which he does, about a half-hour after Harry gets up, and he sits and reads the paper while he eats his own breakfast. Finally, with an exasperated sigh, he sets it down and says, “Well, that’s about enough masochism for one day. How are we feeling?”

“I’m ready,” Harry says, and gestures at his empty breakfast plate. “Should we go?”

“No time like the present,” Remus agrees, setting aside the crossword page which Sirius had handed him when he opened the paper. They get up and set about putting on boots and coats together, and then head out into the chilly Boxing Day morning. It’s drizzling gently, so Remus subtly draws his wand and casts an Impermeability Charm on Harry’s coat, then does the same for his, while Sirius does his own. They make their way briskly to the Apparition Point, and from there Sirius takes Harry on his arm directly into the warm interior of the Apparition Point at St. Mungo’s. They exchange their usual quick but polite greeting with the witch at the welcome desk, and head up to the fourth floor in the lift.

It’s quiet as always in the Janus Thickey Ward, the silence disturbed only occasionally by the murmurs of patients or nurses. Not many people here get visitors, Harry knows, and though it’s a shame… he can sort of understand. If he didn’t love his parents as much as he does, he wouldn’t come. It’s too hard.

Their curtain apartment is open to the light and the air when they arrive down at the end of the ward, but to Harry’s dismay both of his parents are lying in their beds. Of course, that’s where his father has always been, but his mum seems to be sleeping and his father’s blank stare has always been harder to bear. Subdued, he goes to sit in silence at his mum’s bedside and watches her sleep while Sirius and Remus go to talk to his dad in hushed voices, updating him on the year as they always do.

Sleeping, his mum doesn’t seem as ill. Her face is peaceful, and her eyes move and shift as she dreams, offering a natural sort of animation to her features. She doesn’t stare or shift in discomfort as she does when she’s awake; she doesn’t move like a puppet manipulated by an amateur puppeteer. She just… sleeps. As anyone would, without any sense of the madness that holds her in its grasp.

Harry doesn’t know how long he watches her sleep for, just sitting in silence. He tunes out Sirius and Remus talking to his dad, falls into meditative breathing, and just sits with her. It’s nice, in a way. Less stressful than grasping for the bits of hope that come from interacting with her, seeing the moments where it’s almost like she’s whole. At the same time, there’s a sense of loss, of knowing that he might not get to talk to his mum again for a year—maybe for even longer, depending on what happens. But at least they’ll be safe here. They’ll wait for him to come back, and probably not notice at all the time that’s passing. Or maybe they will, but if they know how many days they spend along, they’ve gotten used to it by now.

He’s jerked from his thoughts by the soft touch of a hand on his shoulder, and he looks over to find Remus standing behind him. Sirius is at the entryway to the curtain apartment, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Ready to go?” Remus asks gently. “Or did you want to sit with your dad a bit, too?”

“I’m fine,” Harry says. He stands, hesitates, and bends to kiss his mum’s cheek. Her skin is soft and warm; she doesn’t stir. “Let’s go.”

They make their way back out into the Ward and then into the hospital, and Sirius insinuates himself between Remus and Harry so that he can sling an arm around Harry’s shoulders and take Remus’s hand at the same time, their fingers laced together between them as they make their way in silence back to the lift. As they head down, the lift chiming softly as it passes each floor, Remus says, “Harry, I had a thought the other day but wanted to speak with you, rather than put it in a letter.”

“About what?” Harry asks. His voice sounds dull even to himself, subdued, and Sirius squeezes him gently.

“The Patronus Charm,” Remus says. “I realize it hasn’t yet become a problem, but… well, knowing it offers several advantages, and you’re very strong for your age. I think you’d be capable.”

Harry looks over, past Sirius, who also has an interested look on his face—clearly Remus hadn’t mentioned this to him before. “What made you think of it?”

“Halloween, really,” he says. “I realize that was some time ago. But the Azkaban breakout… I don’t think it would have been possible if Voldemort didn’t have at least some of the Dementors on his side, and I had the thought that many people would be defenceless against them—the young especially. Which means you and your friends, so in learning this you might have one more useful tool in your arsenal.”

“They’re also an excellent trick for communication in an emergency,” Sirius adds, enthused. “Dumbledore worked out a way in the last war to use them to send a secure message that can’t be intercepted or mistake its recipient. Very handy, really.”

“Huh,” Harry says. The Patronus Charm is notoriously difficult according to Defence books he’s read, and specifically useful for defence against Dementors and Lethifolds… but if Voldemort really does have Dementors on his side, there’s not much else that _can_ protect anyone from them. It probably would be a good thing to at least _try_ learning. “Alright.”

“We’ll start this afternoon, if you feel up to it,” Remus says. “It’s unlikely you’ll be able to learn the charm entirely before school resumes—there’s only another week or so until you go back, after all—but I can teach you the trick, at least, and after that it’s only practice.”

“Okay,” Harry says. Remus is usually conservative in his estimates of how long he thinks it’ll take Harry to learn something, but at this point has gotten pretty good at it, having taught him and watched Sirius teach him any number of spells and duelling tricks over the past two summers. “Sounds good, Remus.”

“Excellent.” Remus sounds pleased, and Harry feels it as well as they make their way out of the hospital and back to the Doghouse. It’s something to take his mind off his parents, something real, that will actually be able to help.

By the time they get back to the flat, Harry’s feeling a bit better about the world in general, ready to get to work. Whatever it takes, he reminds himself. Every tool he’s given to help protect himself and those he cares about is a tool he _needs_ , and he’ll work as hard as he has to to master all of them. He meets Remus in the den, helps him push the sofa back a bit to give them more space, and listens carefully as he explains the wand movement and teaches him the incantation: _Expecto Patronum_.

And then he practices.

Two hours later, Harry is feeling substantially less good about his mastery of all the tools available to him. The Patronus Charm feels _impossible_ ; he just can’t make it work. Remus’s explanation of the trick, that he has to conjure a happy memory, just isn’t helping: the more joyous things he can think of have produced, at best, a little bit of light at the end of his wand, more like a _Lumos_ than a Patronus. That much, Remus had said, at least meant that he was capable of the spell, had the magical power and had the incantation and wand movement correct at least most of the time—a failure of the technical elements of the spell produced no effect whatsoever. Power and will made a Patronus strong, enabled a wix to produce a corporeal Patronus, and those were present, creating the bare minimum of effect. But the potency of memory, of emotion: _that_ was what produced a full Patronus, turned it from light and wisps of silvery smoke into a spell with real effect.

“You can’t have one without the other,” Remus explains, having come to sit down next to Harry on the floor of the den. “Can I ask what memory you’re using?”

“Different things,” Harry says with a shrug. “Spending time with my friends, or flying.”

Remus hums. “Those are certainly _joyful_ memories, but perhaps not purely _happy_ in the way the spell demands—if such a distinction makes sense.”

Harry considers that, turns over in his mind the moments of happiness he’s felt. “I think I understand.”

“Think it over some more. I’m sure you’re tired—it’s been an exhausting day. Practicing the charm takes a lot of energy, on top of the emotional ringer of the hospital,” Remus says, and reaches over to pat Harry’s shoulder gently. “We’ll try again tomorrow, alright?”

“Alright,” Harry says, and pries himself up off the floor, then offers Remus a hand.

Remus accepts it, groaning as he rises, and dusts himself off. “I’m getting old,” he says, shaking his head. “Creaky knees, sore back… honestly.”

“Not fair, is it?” Sirius says, sticking his head through the door to the kitchen. “Are you two academics going to come have tea, or shall I drink it all myself?”

Harry perks up. “I’m coming!” he says, and darts off for the kitchen, because when Sirius makes tea he always sets out biscuits, too.

Remus, laughing, follows him, and while Harry sets about pouring tea and dunking a biscuit with bliss, pauses at the doorway to kiss Sirius. “You’ll have the charm in no time,” Remus assures Harry, when they join him at the table. “Truly: it’s only practice.”

“If you say so,” Harry says with a sigh, and takes a long sip of tea. Maybe it _is_ only practice, but if that’s the case, he suspects he’s going to need a _lot_ of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the (approximate) halfway point for this book, and also a good mid-point for some lighthearted chapters. With that in mind: **this is a good time to take a break!** Get a drink of water or some food, straighten your back, unclench your jaw, and go to bed if it's the middle of the night! 
> 
> And then... onward!


	11. Contraband

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm fond of this chapter, honestly. Neville's POV is fun to write, he's just such a good kid! And my GIRL shows up in this one!
> 
> Enjoy, everyone <3 there's one more mostly light-hearted chapter after this one before we get back to the REALLY stressful shit, so I hope everyone's enjoying the break.

Neville glances up from his book at the sound of the train compartment door sliding open, and smiles when he sees that it’s Harry standing there, trunk in hand. “Hey,” he says, and shoves his bookmark into place so that he can stow his book. “Had a good holiday?”

“Hi, Neville,” Harry says, grinning back. The expression brightens his whole face; it’s a relief to see. He’d seemed… washed out, before the break. Tired, distracted—but now, dressed in stylish casual robes and with light back in his green eyes, he looks much better. “Yeah. You?”

“Yeah.”

Harry shoves his trunk—featherlight, obviously—up onto the shelf and flops down onto the seat across from Neville. “That’s good. Get up to much?”

“Not really,” Neville says. “Just, you know, homework. My gran didn’t really… want me going out, so I didn’t.” She’s been paranoid since the Azkaban breakout, and it’s not like Neville doesn’t understand, so even though it was frustrating to be stuck inside and not be able to do much of anything over the break, he didn’t complain.

Harry looks sympathetic, at least. “I suppose she’d be worried.”

“Yeah,” Neville says, and looks away for a minute, out the window. They’re still at King’s Cross, though set to pull away any minute; he’s not sure where their other friends are. Then again, the absence of Ron’s presence is probably why Harry didn’t just skip past the compartment entirely—he’s been surly recently any time Harry shows up to study with them. Still angry about his distance at start of term, maybe. “Was Sirius the same?”

Harry gives a half shrug. “He’s never been one to stay inside just because someone wants to kill him,” he says, and Neville snorts—it shouldn’t be funny, but it sort of is. “And anyway, I got invited to the Farleys’ ball, so we had to go out at least for that. And if we didn’t get murdered _there_ …”

“Oh, right,” Neville says—Harry had mentioned briefly being invited to the ball before the break started. “How’d that go, then?”

“Alright.” Harry scrunches up his face briefly. “I never really know for sure how well I _actually_ managed not to look like an idiot, but I think I did okay.”

“I’m sure you did fine,” Neville says, as reassuring as he can be. He can’t imagine any situation in which Harry would look like an idiot—he’s always so polished nowadays, so clever. He’s… calculated, even when he’s speaking without really thinking like he does in Umbridge’s class.

“Glad you think so,” Harry replies, grinning. “Oh—and I’ve got something to share with you, Hermione, and Ron.”

“What?”

“It’s…” Harry hesitates, glances at the compartment door, and says, “Hold on.” He gets up and locks it, then pulls down the blind. “Sorry.”

Neville shrugs. “I get it.”

“Yeah.” Harry takes his seat again and says, “Remus started teaching me the Patronus Charm. I… still can’t join your club, but if I teach you—or try, anyway, I still haven’t entirely got it myself—will you teach everyone else?”

Neville blinks, and then begins to smile. “That would be brilliant. You know, Hermione and Penelope—Clearwater, I mean—they’d been looking it up in books, because it’s supposed to be such a powerful protection against Dark creatures, but they couldn’t make sense of anything they found.”

“Remus showed me some of the passages,” Harry says with a nod. “But it doesn’t really make sense unless you have an explanation of what it all actually means, practically, I mean. But I can try to help.”

“Great.” Neville beams. “Reopen the blinds? Just in case—better not make people suspicious, right?”

Harry laughs. “Even a Gryffindor can learn!” And hops up again to reopen the blinds and unlock the compartment door. “Just didn’t want anyone walking into the middle of us blatantly undermining Umbridge, you know.”

“I get it,” Neville says. “Merlin, she’s been tough on you. Maybe she’ll have calmed down over the break?”

Harry snorts. “Be worse, probably.”

“Probably.” Neville sighs. “Just wish there was something I could do.”

Immediately, Harry shakes his head, even bringing up a hand to wave Neville off. “Better not,” he says. “You’re better off without her attention on you.”

“You’re probably right.”

“Of _course_ I’m right,” Harry says, affecting Draco Malfoy’s snide drawl. He manages to hold a straight face for about five seconds before laughing, and Neville joins him, happy to see his friend happy. “In all seriousness, though, Neville—don’t get on her bad side.” As he speaks, he touches the back of his left hand lightly. Neville can’t see anything there when he looks, but Harry’s gaze has gone a little distant in the way that speaks of one of his secrets.

“I’ll do my best,” Neville promises. It’s the least he can do. Harry doesn’t ask for much, but… there’s some hidden burden on him, something he won’t talk about—Neville doesn’t know what it is, but _something_ kept him away at the beginning of term, and he suspects it’s that same something that causes his attention to drift off in conversation sometimes, and that drives the studiousness he’d been showing before Christmas. He spends a lot of time reading now, or… off somewhere by himself. It’s not obvious, not really, but Neville knows Harry well by now and knows when there’s something on his mind.

Beneath them there’s a shudder and then the train starts to move, and they exchange an excited glance. It’s always a bit thrilling, even now in their third year, to be headed back to Hogwarts on the train. Neville knows that he can’t feel the same as Harry does about the castle, having been raised in the magical world—he’s heard Harry and Hermione talk together about their introductions to magic, and the real _magic_ of Hogwarts beyond all else, the way it stood head and shoulders above the rest. For Neville, it’s more… the legacy of the place. The school his parents had attended, and his grandparents, and generations of Longbottoms stretching back hundreds of years. His family is old and has had plenty of talented wixen, and almost all of them attended Hogwarts. So for Harry and Hermione, the castle is magic itself; for Neville, it’s history. And he loves it. He loves the excitement of the journey to get there, and the freedom from his grandmother’s expectations to be found within the castle’s walls. Not, of course, that the school doesn’t come with its own set of expectations—there are always eyes on him, because he’s the Boy-Who-Lived and everyone still gets a bee in their bonnet about it every once in a while. But he’d been around in the magical world, and so some of the shine at least has worn off, especially in recent years as everyone has gotten to know boring dumpy Neville Longbottom, and not Heir Longbottom, the Boy-Who-Lived, who’d occasionally made his appearance in the papers growing up.

They sit together in silence for a while, listening to the rumble and clack of the train as it makes its way out of London and into the countryside, picking up speed once it’s free of the city. Soon hills and fields are rolling past outside the window, and rain begins to fall from the heavy grey clouds above, a little slushy from the January cold—it’s probably snowing at Hogwarts, and the thought makes Neville smile.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Harry says, and Neville looks over at him, meets his eyes. Something about his expression, his intent green gaze, makes Neville’s gut squirm a little. It’s startling, and hastily he looks down.

“Oh, just… looking forward to the snow,” he says. “It was brilliant last Christmas, getting to see it all frozen.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, enthused. “Maybe there’ll be snow enough for a snowball fight before classes start tomorrow morning?”

“Maybe,” Neville says, and glances back up to share a smile. “That’d be fun—remember Sirius’s snowball battle last year?”

“Oh, yeah! Remember when Malfoy—“ Harry starts, and launches into a recollection. Neville settles back against his seat to listen, watching Harry gesture as he talks.

Part way through the story, there’s a tap on the door and then it slides open. Harry pauses and looks over, as does Neville, to find a blonde Ravenclaw girl with strange jewelry and prettily braided hair has appeared, who Neville thinks he recognizes as… something Lovegood?

“Luna,” Harry says, surprised— _Luna_ , that’s it—and then smiles. “Couldn’t find a compartment?”

“I had one,” she says, her voice soft and sweet, “but it developed a Nargle infestation, so I thought I might come find you.”

Neville mouths _Nargle_ to himself, confused, even as he sees Harry’s expression turn stony.

“Do you want me to go get rid of the infestation?” he asks. “Sirius taught me another jinx over the break that might work nicely.”

“Oh, no,” Luna says. “It’s fine. But, do you suppose I might sit with you?” She’s looking at Neville.

“Yeah, come on,” Harry says. “Neville, Luna; Luna, Neville. You two’ll probably get along—I should have introduced you earlier, really.”

Luna smiles brightly and comes to sit down. She sits next to Harry and nods politely to Neville. “Hello, Neville,” she says. “Do you mind if I call you that?”

“Not at all,” he says. “If you don’t mind Luna.”

“It _is_ my name,” she says, and both Neville and Harry laugh.

“How was your Christmas?” Harry asks her, and they settle into catching up a little, sharing stories—Neville ends up talking about the book he’d read over the break about the cultivation of roses.

“Oh, roses are one of my favourite flowers,” Luna says, her dreamy voice suddenly filled with enthusiasm. “They’re home to all of the most delicate creatures—excellent habitats, you know.”

“Oh, uh, like what?” Neville asks, and then listens to a brief and bewildering lecture on something called a Tintabell, which is maybe some sort of fairy. He’s never heard of them before, but Luna seems very knowledgeable.

As she comes to the end of her little speech, she says, “If you’re interested, Neville, you should read my daddy’s magazine. Here.” She digs into the slightly worn leather backpack on the seat next to her and draws out a few copies of a magazine with a bright abstract design on its cover; the title declares it to be _The Quibbler_. “It’s an excellent source for news about all the most important goings on.”

“Okay,” Neville says, and takes a copy; she hands one to Harry, too, and watches them keenly as they flip through. Neville thumbs past a few pages with stories and illustrations about hunts for rare magical creatures that, like the Tintabell, are either extremely obscure or imaginary. Neville decides to withhold judgement—he’s taking Care of Magical Creatures this year, but can’t call himself an expert. And then, on page six, he comes across an article entitled, _Abbey Family Still Absent._ His attention caught, he reads the article. It’s about the disappearance of a small family, two muggleborns and their three children, from a town just outside London. The article doesn’t state anything specific, but there’s a clear implication; they’d disappeared just after Halloween, and the author, name unmentioned, had clearly considered _something_ about it worth reporting. He looks up, startled, and finds Luna is still watching him. Harry is absorbed, and peering over the top of the copy of the magazine that Harry holds he finds that he’s on the same page that Neville had found.

“This is very interesting,” he tells Luna. “How often does your father print?”

“Not very often,” she says, sounding regretful. “We don’t have many subscribers, you see. But myself and my daddy consider ourselves to be seekers of truth in a world that’s… sometimes blind. We see the hidden things others prefer to pretend don’t exist at all.”

“I see,” Neville says, and carefully closes the magazine, folds it, and tucks it into one of the deep pockets in his robe. “I’ll give it a read. And maybe you can get some more copies? I know some people who’d probably like it.”

“I’ll do that,” Luna says. She smiles, first at Neville and then at Harry when he looks up from reading and gives them both one of those inscrutable looks he’s developed.

“Definitely interesting,” he says. “Maybe I’ll send a copy to Sirius. Or tell him to subscribe.”

Luna beams. “My daddy would be very pleased.”

“No doubt.” Harry puts his own copy of the magazine away, with the same care Neville had taken. “Thank you, Luna.”

None of them really feels the need to address what Luna’s given them directly, so they fall into easier chat, talking about winter holiday assignments—Harry and Neville sympathizing with Luna, remembering the second year classwork—and their hopes for the new term, mostly that Umbridge will get what’s coming to her. Harry suggests that Luna’s Nargles, which Neville has begun to suspect is code for something, should probably get the same, but Luna just shakes her head with a faint smile on her lips.

Intermittent conversation and breaks for the snack cart and then visits to the loo to change into school robes carry them all the way through the afternoon, past sunset. The lights flicker on in the compartment once it gets dark enough to need them, which Luna takes as a sign that she should be using the light for reading, not talking, and proceeds to immerse herself in a book. Neville suggests a game of cards to Harry, and they play a few hands of muggle Speed, which Hermione had taught them all—and regularly won at, her mind working faster than the rest of theirs could, so it was nice to have some fairer competition. And then Neville spots the lights of Hogsmeade approaching out the window, points it out to Harry, and they put away their cards and get ready to leave the train. It’s not long after that that the train slows to a smooth stop in the station, and the three of them pile out of their compartment and onto the platform together, joining a laughing, chatting crowd of returning students headed for the roadway where the horseless carriages await to take them up to the castle.

Along the way, Neville spots Ron and Hermione, walking with Ginny, and waves at them; they press over through the crowd to join them. Hermione greets Harry warmly; Ron greets him warily, though with less hostility than he’d shown in the fall. Maybe the holiday had been enough time for him to calm down. Harry greets them in return and makes introductions; it turns out that the Weasleys already know Luna, and she and Ginny get to chatting, falling a little behind the third years as they wait in a queue for an empty carriage. Finally, their turn to all pile in comes up, and Neville clambers up first into the warm dim interior of the carriage, followed by Hermione, Harry, and the Weasleys. Luna is a minute behind, and when she finally joins them, she’s greeted with raised eyebrows from both Harry and Hermione.

“Oh, I was only greeting the thestrals,” she says, which causes Harry’s expression to clear. Hermione, though, still looks as confused as Neville feels.

“Thestrals?” she says.

“Oh, yes,” she says. “They pull the carriages. Lovely creatures, really—very gentle.”

“Not that they look it,” Harry mutters, drawing a soft laugh from Luna. Hermione just looks concerned for his sanity.

“Er, sorry,” Neville says, because he can see Hermione gearing up for a comment that’ll probably be rude in that unintentional way she sometimes has. “But what’s a thestral?”

Harry turns a surprised look on him. “You can’t see them?”

“… No?” Neville says, hesitant. “Should I?”

“It’s not always straightforward,” Luna says to Harry. “You couldn’t until you came back to school, remember.”

“Right,” Harry says. “I’d just thought, well.” He glances at Neville, uncomfortable. “But I suppose you were a baby when your parents died—you wouldn’t remember it.”

Neville flinches back a bit, shocked at the non sequitur. “What?”

“Thestrals are only visible to those who’ve witnessed death,” Luna says, in a gentle voice. “Harry and I can see them, is all.”

Neville swallows. “Oh.”

“Sorry, Neville,” Harry says. He leans forward and clasps Neville’s arm briefly, his hand warm even though the fabric of Neville’s winter robes. “Didn’t mean to bring it up like that.”

“S’alright,” Neville says. “No harm done.”

Harry just gives him a look, but doesn’t contradict him, for which Neville is thankful.

The journey up to the castle is short and, after a brief awkward silence, filled with soft chitchat about everyone's holidays. Hermione had, predictably, spent most of it reading; Ginny and Ron's brother Charlie had made it up from Romania for Christmas, though Bill, their oldest brother, was still in Egypt, and given that they'd used some lottery money they'd won over the summer to visit him, he hadn't had an excuse to get away. It sounds to Neville like it was a restful time for everyone—which is a relief, honestly. He knows, from the Quibbler article and from his own gut, that things won't stay peaceful for long... best to take advantage while they can.

The carriages arrive at the castle and everyone piles out and streams up into the building, laughing and talking. Neville and Ron reunite with the other third year Gryffindor boys, exchanging greetings; somewhere in the crowd Harry slips away and Neville spots him a few minutes later as they head into the Great Hall for dinner, walking with Zabini and Nott. They all find places at their own House tables, chatting and waiting for Dumbledore to rise and give his usual start-of-term address—always less momentous than the one he gives in September, but still always interesting, if a bit barmy.

But it's not Dumbledore who stands. It's Umbridge. She clears her throat with her usual false _hem-hem_ , and then waits with clear impatience as murmurs pass around the hall and fail to subside entirely.

"Is _she_ going to talk?" Hermione whispers, incredulous, leaning in so that Neville and Ron can hear.

"Looks like," Ron says, scowling. "Who died and made _her_ Headmistress?"

"Not Dumbledore," Neville says, because Dumbledore's right there—but he's not standing up.

Finally, up on the staff dais Umbridge gives up and says loudly, over lingering whispers, "Well then, children! Listen carefully! Welcome back to another term here at wonderful Hogwarts. I look forward to returning to class, as I'm sure all of my colleagues do.

"But before we are able to do so—and before we indulge in one of the castle's... excellent meals—there are a few announcements that I must make." She clears her throat again, _hem-hem_ , though most everyone's already listening, and those who aren't aren't going to start. "First of all, it is to my dismay that I must announce that over the break, several students remaining in the castle were caught plotting a prank _most_ foul against my person, using contraband materials brought into the castle by owl order! Such a thing is of course _quite_ forbidden, and so I have enacted measures to prevent future attempts.

"Some of you may have seen the next Educational Decree which Mr. Filch has so obligingly put up on the wall outside the hall. If not, I shall state it clearly: that henceforth, to prevent students from bringing contraband into the castle, all mail, especially packages, shall be searched. I have already had a Ministry warding team come to the castle to place the owl ward. Fear not, I shall not prevent your mail from reaching you, or the letters you send from reaching your parents! Mail will only be arrested if it contains illicit materials."

"Interesting that she doesn't specify what _illicit materials_ are," Hermione mutters, and Neville shoots her a glance—she's right, of course. She'll be searching all packages, and probably reading their letters, too, especially the students she doesn't like. Bugger.

"I see some dismay on your charming faces!" Umbridge says, sugary. "I hope that you will not feel too inconvenienced by this unfortunate necessity, but it _is_ indeed a necessity, children!"

There's a murmur of discontent in the room; Neville can hear it and he's sure that Umbridge can too, but she ignores it and ploughs onward. "Secondly, as you are aware, I have been conducting inspections of Hogwarts staff over the past term. I shall be continuing to do so in this coming term, especially for those about whom I have... _concerns_. And fear not, children, for I was also granted over the holiday the authority to _deal with_ any professor whose conduct the Ministry deems utterly unacceptable! Thus the quality of your education is certain to improve in the near future. Thank you! Enjoy your meal!"

And then she sits down and food appears on the tables. Neville lets out a breath, unaware until then that he'd been holding it; he'd honestly been concerned that she might have been made Headmistress or something over the break. But still, authority to fire professors? Not good, not at all, and the look he shares with Ron and Hermione suggests that they feel the same.

"Who d'you think's in trouble?" Ron asks, starting to fill his plate.

"Not sure," Neville says. "Maybe Hagrid?" Umbridge _has_ been particularly sniffy in his classes.

Ron nods. "That'd make sense. Maybe Trelawney, too—Umbridge doesn't think much of her, so far as I can tell."

"Professors Babbling and Vector are probably safe," Hermione says. "They just do their jobs, really."

"Yeah," Neville says—he can't speak to Professor Babbling, who teaches Ancient Runes, but he's taking Arithmancy. "Snape's fine too, I'm sure. And I don't think she _could_ fire any of the Heads of Houses, though maybe she'd try."

"They're careful," Hermione says. "McGonagall has been very diplomatic, I think."

"McGonagall's strict enough that Umbridge likes her," Ron says, rolling his eyes. "That's all."

"Well, maybe," Neville says. He doesn't think it's that simple, but he doesn't want to argue about it. "So: Trelawney and Hagrid. We'll keep an eye out."

"Yes," Hermione says and then eats a bite of food with an air of contemplation that Neville has learned means she's not quite done talking. "What do you think about our... other endeavours?"

Ron leans in a bit more and says, quietly as he can, "You mean the DA?"

"Shh," Hermione hisses. "Yes, but don't _say that."_

"We'll meet soon," Neville interjects quickly, before the two of them can start bickering; Ron looks mutinous but doesn't snap at Hermione. "First week. Hermione, set the coin tonight?"

"Okay," she whispers, and then all of them set about their dinners, as if they hadn't just been planning something _illicit_ , to use Umbridge's word, right in the middle of dinner.

* * *

As it happens, it's not possible for the DA to meet in the first week back. There's a flurry of whispers and passed notes and shifts of the date on the coin; everyone is busy in the first week with catching up after the holiday, and the meeting ends up being set for the end of the second week of term. In the end, though, this is for the best, because Harry slips Neville a note on a torn scrap of parchment on the first day of class that says in handwriting that's scribbly in the way his gets when he's rushing, _Our classroom, tomorrow during the spare_. _Bring Hermione and Ron._

Neville shares the note with his friends after class and after Harry has walked away, because he's learned _something_ about being subtle after all the time he's spent with his Slytherin friend, and quietly tells them about Harry learning the Patronus, because he suspects that that's what this is about. Hermione's face lights up with academic glee, and Ron looks impressed. They both agree immediately of course to come along, and the next day after Charms all of them head for the abandoned classroom that they'd all often used to meet in last year.

Harry's already there when they arrive, busy pushing the table and chairs out of the middle of the room, his sleeves rolled up to bare his forearms, and he looks over and smiles when they enter the room. Neville shuts the door behind them and locks it, and then says, "Hi, Harry."

"Hey," says Harry. "Thanks for coming."

"Of course," Neville says, and then something occurs to him. "Wait, doesn't Slytherin have Herbology right now?"

"Yeah," Harry says, and shrugs. "I'll get the notes from Blaise. This is more important."

"The Patronus?"

Harry grins. "Exactly."

"That's _brilliant,_ " Hermione says. "You said Mr. Lupin taught you the trick?"

"Remus, yeah," Harry says. "You _can_ just call him by his name, you know."

"Oh, I know," Hermione says, looking bashful. "It seems strange to be so informal with other people's parents, is all."

Harry beams, the smile lighting his eyes. It's probably not often, Neville thinks, that Harry hears someone referred to as his _parent,_ or even that he gets to think of someone that way. He can understand the pleasure that must be in it. "Well, he wouldn't mind." Then he clears his throat and sets his face into a more serious expression, and says, "Come on, I'll teach you what I know."

The lesson takes a while—the wand movement has to be really precise, especially at first, or so Harry says, but he manages to teach it well. In fact, he teaches well in general, explains things clearly and in multiple ways when they need it, shows them physically what the movement is and helps Ron with pronouncing the incantation precisely, something he always struggles a bit with. And then he explains about happiness. About needing to really _conjure_ pure happiness.

"But not joy," he says. "I know that that's a really fine line to draw, but... well, the memories I was trying at first don't work, because they're joyful, but not really truly _happy_."

"How do you mean?" Hermione says. Her wand is still out, and she's leaning in, intent.

"Well," Harry says, and then frowns, looking down. "I was using memories of things like flying, or spending time with you guys. Those are things that make me happy. But... I've gotten better results from the spell with things that are more... I don't know, complicated? I suppose that's the right word."

"Like what?"

Harry shakes his head. "It's kind of personal. Sorry."

"Oh," Hermione says, startled, and then looks embarrassed. "Sorry, Harry. I didn't mean to pry."

Harry just waves the apology away. "It's okay. Look, just... give it a try, alright?"

So they do, though with little to no effect. Neville digs deep, trying to come up with a happy enough memory or thought, but the best he can come up with is the feeling of bittersweet joy he gets whenever he looks at a photo of his parents. That produces a flicker of light and wisp of silvery mist from the tip of his wand, and Harry nods with an encouraging smile and says that that's really pretty good.

"I didn't get any better than that when Remus first taught me the spell," he says. "It's hard. It takes a _lot_ of willpower and focus—I bet you can do it, Neville, since you've got—" and he cuts himself off, glances at Ron and Hermione.

"Oh," Neville says, and holds up the hand not holding his wand and murmurs, _"Lumos_." A ball of light appears in his palm—he's gotten good at the trick. "I told them."

"Okay," Harry says, nodding. Ron and Hermione have looked over, Ron frowning. "Right—well, it's really the same amount of will that it takes to do wandless magic, or nearly. So... keep that in mind when you're practicing, and I think you'll get it."

"Can you do a proper one?" Ron asks, coming over from where he'd been standing. "Give us an example?"

Harry gives a half-shrug. "I'm still getting better—I can't do corporeal yet, but Remus thinks I'll be able to with practice."

"Show us?" Hermione asks eagerly.

Harry takes a step back and flicks his wrist to summon his wand to his hand from the holster visible on his still-bared forearm. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath first, and Neville watches his face intently as it settles into lines of serenity. Some emotion flickers there, barely hidden by projected calm, and then he opens his eyes and raises his wand, swirls it in a practiced gesture, and says forcefully, " _Expecto Patronum._ "

There's a bloom of light and silver mist from the tip of Harry's wand, forming first a shield and then a condensing cloud which swirls around him—it almost forms a shape, the shifting silver mist suggesting a large creature of some kind before it dissipates, vanishing back into the air. Smiling another of those luminous smiles of his, Harry turns to them and says, "That's the best I've ever managed, I think!"

"It's _amazing,_ " Hermione says. "All the books say even just a shield is very difficult, even for adult wixen! That's so wonderful, Harry, really. You must be very powerful."

He shrugs. "I don't know about that. But I've spent a lot of time learning to hone my will with Neville, for wandless magic."

"Have you learned any other wandless spells?" Neville asks. He'd continued working on wandless magic himself, of course, though with less success than they'd had last year. Without Harry to practice with regularly over the summer and last term, it had been harder to feel sure of himself, or to feel comfortable working through ideas out loud, discussing problems—Ron and Hermione just wouldn't understand.

"Not yet," Harry says. "I'm working on _Accio,_ but it's really hard."

"Merlin," Neville says, startled. "I can imagine." _Accio_ is a fifth-year charm, usually, though it's definitely possible to learn it earlier; a lot of pureblood kids learn it early because they've seen their parents use it so often. Neville knows it and has practiced it a little, and it requires pretty strong willpower even _with_ a wand.

Harry shrugs. "It's pretty much a pure will spell, and I'm good at those."

"That's true," Neville says. "Well, good luck. Maybe... we could start getting together again to work on wandless magic? I've been trying to learn _Aguamenti_."

"Sure," Harry replies, and they smile at one another before Hermione clears her throat.

"Maybe you could give us some tips, based on your study of wandless magic?" she says. "Neville, you could talk to the—um." She looks at Harry.

He sighs. "I know your club exists. I just don't want to draw any extra attention to you—Umbridge is too bloody suspicious of me all the time as is. I'd only get myself _and_ you in worse trouble if I joined, and I get plenty of extra Defence from Sirius and Remus, obviously."

"Right," Hermione says, though Neville thinks she's blushing, not that it's easy to tell with her dark skin. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to make your position more difficult."

"It's okay," Harry says. "I know I could have joined, it just... it was a bad idea, and it still is."

"You said it when I first mentioned the club to you, though," Neville says. "You have to be more careful now, being in Slytherin. There are a lot of eyes on you because of your speaking up about Voldemort, and because of being friends with me. Us."

"Exactly," Harry says, though with a regretful look. "I... never apologized for how harsh I was about it in the fall. I'm sorry."

"I..." Neville rubs the back of his head. "Well, it's okay. We're friends again, aren't we? And things are better now."

"Yeah," Harry says, but he looks away, hiding whatever's on his face, and something goes tight in Neville's gut.

"Well," says Hermione briskly, "shall we practice some more?"

"I think it's almost time for our next class," Neville says, still watching Harry carefully. "We should probably go."

"Oh!" Hermione casts a quick _Tempus_ , and seeing the time immediately begins bustling around, chivvying Ron into getting ready.

"I actually _do_ have a spare next," Harry says, looking over at her. "So I'm going to stay here and work for a bit, I think. But we'll talk later?"

"Definitely," Neville says, and steps over toward Harry, restricting his voice so that Hermione and Ron won't hear. "Listen, Harry..."

Harry looks up, meets his gaze with shadowed eyes. "Yeah, Nev?"

Neville pauses, then sighs and reaches out to clasp his hand around Harry's wrist for a moment, feeling almost startled by his own boldness. "We _are_ friends," he says, quiet but fierce. "I care about you. So don't... just, I don't know what's been going on with you, but be careful? For my sake?"

"Things are hard right now," Harry replies, equally quiet. "Slytherin, the war, Sirius... it's complicated."

"I understand." Neville squeezes Harry's wrist, ignores the impulse to slide his hand down to squeeze his hand instead, and then lets go. " _Ask_ if you need help, okay? You help us so much, I feel like I never get to do anything to help you."

"You help me," Harry says, immediately. "A _lot_. You're... you're my best friend, Neville. Just, there's some things I have to do on my own."

"I don't think that's true, but okay, Harry," Neville says, and then across the room Hermione calls his name. "I've got to go. Will... do you want to meet here after dinner tomorrow? If Umbridge doesn't nail you with a detention before that?"

"Sounds good," Harry says, and waves to them as they leave, the door clicking shut behind them.

"What was all that about?" Ron says, as soon as they're a ways from the door and definitely out of Harry's earshot. "Was he being a jerk again?"

"No, no," Neville says immediately. "Things are just sort of weird right now. You know."

Hermione sighs, long and a bit sad. "I do feel bad for him, down there by himself."

"It's not like he doesn't fit in," Ron says. "I mean, he's a decent guy and all, better than most of the snakes, but he's still one of them. He's got friends down there and he's _just_ like them sometimes—I mean, you saw the way he got all weird when Neville said that we're still friends with him, didn't you?"

"I suppose..." Hermione says, looking down. "I only—well, I don't know."

"Look," Ron says, gesturing expansively, "I don't think he's going to go fight for You-Know-Who or anything. He isn't evil, fine, whatever. But you can't pretend he's really _like_ us, and he's figured that out too—that's why he's stopped spending so much time with us, and I think that's probably for the best."

"He _is_ our friend, though," Neville says. "We can't abandon him."

"Do whatever you think's best." Ron shrugs. "I'm just saying—if in another year or two, when he starts thinking about the future, don't be surprised if he decides that chasing his _ambition_ , whatever it is, is more important than you."

"That won't happen," Neville says quietly, because he's sure it's the truth, but Ron just shakes his head. Hermione just sighs again and says nothing. Ron's pessimism about Harry is exhausting, and though he's definitely gotten a bit better, he still _says_ these things sometimes. But time would prove him wrong, Neville is confident.

"Let's just get to class," Hermione says. "And at the next DA meeting, we can share what Harry taught us—and maybe you could talk a bit about wandless magic, Neville?"

"Maybe," he says, because he remembers how hard it was, how much dedication it took, and how his progress had fallen off almost as soon as he'd stopped working at it all the time. He's pretty sure that he's only done as well as he has with it because of Harry, Harry's dedication and his help, their relationship fuelling his efforts; he's not sure anyone else will be capable of the same. But he'll tell them what he can—it's not like it's not a good thing to know, and maybe _some_ of the students in the DA will be capable. "Yeah. Alright—next meeting, or the one after, depending."

"Perfect." Hermione sounds satisfied, and Ron looks pleased too. Neither of them had gotten more than a faint light from their attempts at the spell, but seeing that Harry could do it was encouraging. If any third year could do it at all, maybe all of them could, and Neville settles himself to his determination: by the end of the year, whatever else happens, he'll be able to cast the Patronus Charm.

* * *

The second week of term passes quickly. Umbridge has stopped visiting several of the classes, focusing her attention on Trelawney and Hagrid as Neville, Ron, and Hermione had guessed, though she continues to attend Professor McGonagall and Professor Sprout's classes as well. "To keep them in line," is Hermione's theory, and Neville reckons she's probably right—outside of Harry, all the most vocal opponents of Umbridge's increasingly strict regime are in Gryffindor and Hufflepuff. Maybe she thought that by intimidating their Heads of House, they'd be quieter, but it doesn't work very well.

Even less well when, after a few days' delay in any mail being received at all, certain people start receiving letters with passages blacked out. There's an uproar in the Great Hall at breakfast on the first day, and people stream en masse to complain to their Heads of House. Unfortunately, the Heads don't seem able to do anything—Umbridge insists that the redacted sections contain forbidden knowledge or inflammatory lies on the parts of their families and friends outside of school. She also, part way through the second week, stands up at breakfast one morning to announce a new Educational Decree: that any student found in possession of a copy of the "inflammatory and false publication" the _Quibbler_ will be punished and have the magazine confiscated immediately. Carefully, Neville hides his own copy at the bottom of his trunk, and wonders how Umbridge had discovered that the magazine was printing the truth that the _Prophet_ wouldn't admit to in amongst all its bizarre near-fiction.

With that in mind, he quietly approaches Luna Lovegood when he spots her in the library on that same day, sitting down at the table as if to join her in studying, and asks what she thinks happened.

"Oh," she says, blinking at him. "I owled daddy asking for a few more copies to share with people. She must have looked at them when they arrived. I'm very sorry."

"It's alright," Neville says. "Good to know, I guess. Do you... well." He digs into his pocket and pulls out his own DA galleon—he can get another from Hermione, and Luna needs one.

"Ooh," she says, and immediately flips it over her fingers in a deft and graceful gesture that leaves him staring. "This is quite fun!"

"How'd you—" then he cuts himself off, shaking his head. How she learned to do that doesn't actually matter. "Sorry." He leans in across the table and whispers, "Do you know where the Room of Requirement is?"

She shakes her head, so he explains, and then about the coin, and says that she should come along to the meetings. She hasn't been, so far—not an incredible surprise, as there aren't very many students below third year in the club, but she's smart and he thinks she'd be a good addition to the group. She agrees to come along to the meeting and stows the Galleon, and says a little more loudly, "Thanks, Neville. I promise I'll pay you back!"

"Oh, no problem," he says, catching on. "Um, listen, I said I'd go meet Hermione, so just come find me when you're ready."

"That sounds good," she says, and smiles at him warmly. Then she wiggles her fingers in an odd little wave. "Bye!"

"Bye." He gathers up the books he'd dropped on the table and takes them to be checked out, and then goes to find Hermione—he had, in fact, been telling the truth about meeting with her. Now that spring term has arrived she's redoubled her usual craziness about studying, with the added complication of her wanting to do extra research for the DA, and he needs to soothe her nerves before Ron snaps.

A few more days pass like normal, and then finally Friday evening arrives, and Neville, Ron, and Hermione slip away one by one to the seventh floor. Going places together is expected of them by this point, but also very obvious, so they try to be a little more stealth. Hermione goes first, right after dinner, because she claims she likes to sit in the DA room and read before everyone else gets there. Neville joins her after a stop at Gryffindor Tower to make some performative small-talk with Dean in the common room and drop off his bag in the dorm, and then he goes too, leaving Ron finishing a game of chess started this morning against Seamus; he'll be along in another half-hour or so, just in time for the meeting.

Slowly, the DA gathers. There are about three dozen people at this point, at least who attend regularly, and some others who come when they can. This being the first meeting back, there are a few more than usual, and so the DA room is quite near capacity, people gathered to talk about Defence reading done over the holiday, spells practiced, and their hopes for the term.

The Slytherins trickle in near the start of the meeting, Gemma Farley the last of all, and she shuts the door behind her and says, loudly, "Are we waiting for anyone else?"

Up at the front of the room, standing on a slightly raised platform that the room gives them for the use of whoever's leading the group when it's this busy, Penelope shakes her head. "I think most everyone is here."

Neville glances around, spots Luna, and heads over toward her. She smiles at him when he arrives at her side, and then turns her attention to Penelope, who's continuing.

"Welcome back, everyone," she says. "I'm not going to echo our most beloved Inquisitor's welcome address, because I think everyone's pretty tired of talk by now, but we've obviously got some problems."

"No kidding," says Seamus, somewhere near the middle of the room. "We're buggered if we don't find a way around that mail ban."

"Oh, don't worry—" says Fred, leaning casually against the wall beside his brother.

"—we're working on it," finishes George, and there's a chuckle.

"Well, good to know," Penelope says, smiling. "Keep us updated, lads."

Next to Neville, Luna raises her hand and waits patiently. Penelope spots it, raises an eyebrow, and says, "Oh, Lovegood. Hello. What is it?"

"Well, I don't know about the mail," she says, "but if anyone _does_ want a copy of the _Quibbler,_ I have some."

"That's... good," Penelope says, sounding doubtful. "I apologize, Lovegood, but I can't say I know much about the publication—why exactly did Umbridge ban it?"

"Well," Luna says, "my daddy and his writers produce articles about creatures that the Ministry doesn't recognize, the hunt for obscure and forgotten magics that they would probably like to make illegal, and the disappearance of muggleborns that the _Prophet_ isn't reporting on."

Neville had been able to see Penelope and others dismissing Luna's words, right up until she got to the last thing on her list, and he reaches out to pat her shoulder when she's done. "She's right," he says. "I've a copy myself—it's, um, in amongst other stuff, but the _Quibbler_ 's a source of news Umbridge probably doesn't want us to have. She doesn't believe anything is happening out there, and doesn't want _us_ to believe it either."

"... Right," Penelope says, a bit taken aback. "Well, if you have some spare copies, Lovegood, please hand them out. We'll share them around—carefully, people, we don't want anyone getting in trouble."

There's a round of nods.

Cedric, standing to the side, steps forward a bit and uncrosses his arms. "We'll work on other solutions to the lack of real news, too," he says. "I'd bet we can come up with some way to find out, no matter Umbridge's censorship. Forewarned is forearmed, after all."

"Quite right," Penelope says. "Maybe we can devote some time tonight to a bit of a group brainstorm about the issue—Weasley twins, perhaps you can lead, share your thoughts so far?"

"We'd be delighted," Fred says, and they both sweep one of their theatrical bows.

"Wonderful." Penelope turns then to look at Neville again, and says, "Right, we've one other thing as well. Neville, perhaps you'd like to share?"

"Ah, right," he says—Hermione must have told Penelope about the Patronus; they'd been talking when he arrived. "Well, you see, I've gotten some information about how to cast a Patronus charm."

There's a lot of interested murmuring and people shuffling about, excited.

"I'll do my best to teach it, but it's really very hard—so, if everyone can be patient?" Neville says. "Um, should I—"

"Yes, yes, come here, get started," Penelope says, and makes some space on the platform.

Neville moves around past a few people, murmuring his excuse-me's and sorry's as he goes, and eventually comes to the front of the room. He looks around at the expectant faces, swallows, and then tries to summon the same confidence and clarity that Harry had projected when he was teaching them the spell just last week. Once he feels he's got at least some grasp on it, he starts up talking, explaining shakily at first, bolstered by Hermione's smile and Ron's subtle thumbs up from across the room. Once he's explained as best he can, the incantation and wand movement and Harry's little tip about happy memories, people break up and start to practice, and Neville is able to relax a little, with no more crowd of eyes on him.

Cedric claps his shoulder as he steps off the platform, says, "Good work, Neville."

"Thanks, Cedric," Neville says, smiles at him, and then takes a deep breath and starts to go around and help people with wand movements as the DA begins to practice.


	12. The Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to The Plot everyone! It's here to stay from now until the end of the book, pretty much!
> 
> This is also the last mostly-lighthearted chapter for a while, so just... brace yourselves for that.
> 
> I also just wanted to apologize for the late update. My mental health is, shall we say... a mess. I'm trying to finish my dissertation, it's a whole thing--if you wanted to give me a boost by leaving a comment, I'd be grateful <3 but mostly I hope everyone reads and enjoys the chapter!

Harry stops writing in the diary and gives up on searching actively for the Chamber for the time being—it’s only driving him mad, and he’d rather return his attention to the more immediate problems at Hogwarts: namely, Umbridge. She pulls back a little on assigning him detentions all the time, to his relief—Gemma only has so much Dittany, after all—but only so that she can focus on bringing the hammer down on the school in other ways. Her ban on the _Quibbler_ is only the start; it becomes clear quickly that she intends to keep the students from getting any sort of news from outside that hasn’t been vetted by the Ministry, and the _Prophet_ ’s quality of reporting seems to decline every day. More and more, it’s only celebrity gossip and Quidditch on the front pages; the newspaper reads like a tabloid. It’s impossible to tell if it’s because they’re actively erasing all hints of whatever things are happening in the public eye, or if there’s simply nothing happening.

Harry stops writing to Sirius and Remus entirely, and instead makes a habit of calling on the mirror every few days. When he explains why the first time he calls, Sirius is so outraged that he threatens to pull Harry out of school—only by arguing that they should have someone on the inside capable of getting news in and out, as Harry is with the help of the mirror, does he manage to talk him down. He closes that call and sighs with relief, then casts an anxious glance toward his trunk, where the diary lies hidden. No progress on that front, and no way to _make_ progress; he’s exhausted his leads, and a few weeks away from it and without talking to Tom have bred a sense of foreboding at the thought of going back to that. It _had_ worn on him to be writing to the diary all the time, in a way he hadn’t even noticed, really; he’d been a bit obsessed, thinking about it near-constantly without realizing that he had been, the diary a constant undercurrent in his thoughts when he’d been rebuilding his connections with his friends in November and December. He’d spent almost all his free time writing in it, often staying up late, losing sleep; it bothers him that he hadn’t noticed at the time. Now he’s free of it, and he’s determined not to take it out again until he knows where the Chamber is and how to get in to hide it.

There’s a tension in the school that grows as January passes. It’s cold and snowy outside, trapping everyone inside, so they can’t help but look one another in the eye and acknowledge that the whole castle feels like there’s pressure building up within it. What the explosion will look like, Harry doesn’t know, but he’s sure there will be one. Umbridge bans students from gathering in groups larger than three or standing closer than two feet together, supposedly because with Valentine’s Day only a few weeks away she wants to “encourage appropriate behaviour”, but Harry’s sure that it’s actually to quell the whispers than run through the halls.

Not that it works, of course. There are a lot of conversations that are just held at a slightly louder volume now, that cut off when anyone not already a participant—especially a Slytherin—draws near. Harry tries not to take it personally; he has a few of those conversations himself, after all. He also starts using his Cloak to sneak away to meet with Neville to study and practice wandless magic, feeling that the increase in caution is probably warranted; he can feel eyes on him in the common room, and suspects that Umbridge has recruited a spy. Probably Malfoy—he’d do it just for spite, but he’s also enough of a suck-up that he’d agree to something like that.

He's supposed to have a check-in meeting with Dumbledore about his spy work in January, but no summons comes, and he doesn't send a letter, either. It's possible that they'd be able to hide the actual reason for the meeting, of course, but he's sure that any student, especially himself, meeting privately with Dumbledore would catch Umbridge's attention, and he doesn't want any more of that if he can help it. It's a shame, but probably for the best.

As it is, Umbridge does all she can to catch students at misbehaviour, and begins supervising mass detentions wherein fully study halls worth of students are assigned to write lines with regular quills for hours at a time; she also starts assigning blood quill detentions to more students. The latter Harry learns when Neville arrives to one of their wandless magic study sessions near the end of January after a detention with Umbridge looking pale-faced and, beneath shock, furious.

He thrusts his left hand, still cut and bleeding, into Harry’s face, and demands, “Has she been doing this to you the entire time?”

Harry glances down at his hand, which he’s gone back to wrapping in bandages; he doesn’t use Gemma’s Dittany more than once a week, and even then only if Umbridge assigns him two or more detentions within that week, which she’s done in three of the four weeks of term so far. “Yeah,” he says, and sighs. “I guess she’s decided she can do whatever she wants, now that no one can get a letter out to our parents.”

“Why didn’t you tell Sirius?” Neville says. “He’d have put a stop to it!”

“He’d have pulled me out of school,” Harry replies flatly, and, tired of arguing with people about it, refuses to explain himself further no matter how much Neville prods. Eventually he gives up, and Harry recommends that he try Dittany, if he can get any.

Of course, Umbridge’s attempts to cow the student body fail. Somehow the twins begin playing regular pranks with supplies that they _really_ should not be able to get their hands on—how they got the Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder which they use to black out Umbridge’s classroom three times in a week or the Portable Swamp which fills the third floor corridor outside her office for two days, Harry doesn’t know, but he’s impressed. Sneaking out through one of the secret passages, maybe—but he leaves the Marauder’s Map tucked away, bringing it out only when he needs to do his own sneaking around and has to be sure that Umbridge is on the opposite side of the castle. He’s sure that if she found that, she’d destroy it in an instant, even if it just looked like scrap parchment; she’s cruel in that way.

There’s also a stir among the Hufflepuffs. Harry isn’t entirely sure what’s going on, but in a trickle, and then almost as a whole body, the badger House stops showing up at meals. Where they are and how they’re getting food, no one quite knows. Or, well, Harry suspects—the Map is marked with the location of the kitchens, very close indeed to the Hufflepuff common room, and they’re generally so polite that he’s sure the house elves like them. It gets Umbridge into an incredible strop not to be able to keep an eye on a full quarter of the student body, much to everyone else’s pleasure; her inability to do anything about it makes it even better.

But she retaliates.

The first Saturday of February is cold and clear and sunny, and the sunlight draws a lot of students out of the castle for the first time in weeks. For that reason, there’s already a significant audience present when Umbridge leads Professor Trelawney out of the castle. Harry himself was sitting in one of the ground floor study halls when they passed by, and the desperate tone of Trelawney’s voice caught his attention. He follows them out through the halls, joined by other students, and so is able to witness it clearly when, once they’re through the front doors, Umbridge stops and says to Trelawney, “Your mewling about it does not change the facts, Sibyll! You have been dismissed by order of the Minister and myself as High Inquisitor, and you _will_ vacate this castle at once!”

“But this is my _home_!” Trelawney cries. “And that is my _work_! My _calling_! Madame Umbridge, please, you can’t do this!”

“I certainly can, and I have,” Umbridge says. “It is well within my authority to dismiss any teacher at this school whom I deem to be _unacceptable_.” At that, she turns a dire look on Hagrid, who in response to the gathering crowd has appeared from elsewhere on the grounds—he looks startled, and then glares. Somewhere in the back of Harry’s mind, something ticks over, but he doesn’t have time to focus on it right now and figure out what’s just clicked.

“I have nowhere else to go!” Trelawney begins to cry, then, tears rolling down her face from under her large glasses, and she steps forward to clutch at Umbridge’s arm. “Please, please—“

“Get off me,” Umbridge snaps, and shakes her off so forcefully that Trelawney stumbles backward toward the door. She trips on the bottom step and falls onto her bum, and there sits stunned, still crying. “You are hereby expelled from the castle, Sibyll Trelawney, and—“

“Now, now,” comes Dumbledore’s voice from behind Harry, where he’s standing at the castle’s doorway, and he whirls and then, with the other students around him, hurriedly makes space for the Headmaster to come through. “I’m sure there’s no need for this. Minerva?”

“Come here, Sibyll,” Professor McGonagall says; she’d appeared with Dumbledore and brushes past him to collect Trelawney up off the stair and prop her up. It’s a bit startling to see—Harry’s not sure he’d even ever seen them speak at a meal, never mind interact in a friendly way, but now McGonagall is speaking quietly to her, comforting, as Dumbledore steps forward to face Umbridge.

“Madame Umbridge,” he says. “I understand that it is within your rights to dismiss a professor from their position here at Hogwarts. However, it is _not_ , unless something has changed without my knowledge, within your rights to decide who does and does not have the right to dwell within the castle.”

“If she isn’t a professor, she has no right to stay,” Umbridge says. “She must go!”

“She lacks that right without my let, yes,” Dumbledore says, and folds his hands calmly into his sleeves. He’s dressed in unusually somber purple today, though his robe still sparkles with constellations picked out in golden sequins. “But I am happy to grant that let, as Headmaster. Professor Trelawney will, at your whim, lose her position as Professor of Divination, but I am quite content for her to retain her dwelling in the North Tower.”

Immediately, Trelawney bursts into tears all over again, and rushes out of Professor McGonagall’s grasp to rush over to Dumbledore and cling to his robes, sobbing. “Thank you,” she says, “thank you Albus, thank you.”

It’s hard to watch her dissolve, but Harry forces himself not to look away, even as past them he can see Umbridge’s expression twisting hatefully. Dumbledore just pats Trelawney’s back a few times, and then passes her back into McGonagall’s grasp. “Of course, Sibyll,” he says. “Go on, back to your quarters—take a moment in private to calm yourself, hm?”

Professor McGonagall escorts her away, and then Dumbledore turns to Umbridge. “Your concern for the quality of teaching at Hogwarts is understandable,” he says to her. “And I shall be sure to appoint a more appropriate teacher of Divination in Trelawney’s place.”

“ _You_ will not be appointing anyone!” Umbridge says. “I will appoint the new teacher, as is correct under Educational Decree number Twenty-Two.”

“Not to contradict you,” Dumbledore says mildly, “but I believe that the Decree states that the Ministry will select an appropriate candidate should I be unable—and I am not. I need only a day to contact my intended replacement.”

“Who is?” Umbridge sneers, leaning in. It fails to look at all intimidating, Dumbledore having both considerably more poise and nearly a foot of height on her.

“Well, I shan’t get ahead of myself—he may decline, in which case I welcome you to find your own Seer to fill the role, Madame,” Dumbledore says, sketches a shallow bow to her, and then turns to the crowd. “I believe that the drama is now concluded. It seems to me that you should all feel free to return to whatever it was you were doing with your most lovely Saturday before it was interrupted.”

And then he turns and sails back through the door, unflappable and mellow, even as he leaves Umbridge behind sputtering and red-faced. She stands there for a moment, and then seems to realize that she’s surrounded by unfriendly eyes on all sides in the midst of the crowd of students, and storms back into the castle in Dumbledore’s wake. Harry gets out of her path, and then shakes his head. And people claim _he_ has difficulty keeping his temper; at least his rage doesn’t turn his whole face into a tomato—or an eggplant, like it had for Uncle Vernon.

He glances back over his shoulder and sees Hagrid just turning away to head back down the hill to his cottage, and that faint click of thought from earlier repeats itself. Without Umbridge’s theatrics unfolding in front of him, he can give it his attention, and frowns. Hagrid—something about Hagrid, something he’d forgotten…

He has to stand on the step of the castle for a moment, staring with furrowed brows up at the wispy clouds that chase each other across the clear blue sky, and then it comes to him: Hagrid’s name had appeared in the articles Snape had shown him about the opening of the Chamber of Secrets in the 40’s. He’d never followed up on that particular lead, believing it hopeless to interrogate Hagrid, who’d seemed like he’d only been made a goat, about events from 50 years ago, but… he doesn’t have anything else. Every other avenue of enquiry has burned itself out, including the diary. He has to at least _try_ , and with everyone distracted with gossip about Trelawney, there’ll be no better time than now.

So he checks that his satchel is slung securely across his body and darts off after the gamekeeper, whose long strides have carried him swiftly down the hill toward his hut and the pumpkin patch, currently barren and covered in snow.

“Hagrid!” Harry calls, once he’s some distance from the students still lingering out front the castle gates and, he hopes, within earshot of Hagrid.

He’s in luck; Hagrid pauses and turns around, then waves when he spots him. “Hullo, Harry!” he booms, and Harry catches up a moment later, sliding a little in the slushy snow as he stops on the path beside the gamekeeper and current Care of Magical Creatures professor. “Had a question about class?”

“No,” Harry says, though he often has questions about the things they do in class. Hagrid’s lessons can be… a bit meandering, though always engaging—so much so that they demand attention on the material, rather than on Hagrid himself, so Harry tries not to feel too stupid about having had class with him several times a week for _months_ and still having failed to remember about this. “Um, it’s about something else. It might be sort of… a rude question.”

“Well then,” Hagrid says, and reaches up to rub at his cheek, his fingers scratching against his bushy beard. “No harm in askin’, Harry.”

“Right,” Harry says. “Well, it’s… it’s something I read. You see, Sirius and Remus have been telling me about exploring the castle when they were here, and I decided to read up a bit on its history to see if I could find some passages or interesting rooms that they didn’t.”

“A’right,” Hagrid says, surprisingly patient with Harry’s rambling. “Did you find anything?”

“Maybe.” Harry shifts a little, foot-to-foot. “Um, I found a reference to something called the Chamber of Secrets, and—“

“Found some reference to the trouble that got me expelled, hm?” Hagrid interrupts. Harry thinks he’s frowning behind his beard, but isn’t entirely sure. There’s a moment where Harry’s sure Hagrid is about to get angry, to tell him to get lost… but then he just lets out a huff and says, “Come on down and have a cup o’ tea, and I’ll tell you what I know. Understandable that you’d be curious.”

“Thanks, Hagrid,” Harry says, subdued, and follows Hagrid down to his cabin. He sits on an overly large chair and pets an affectionate Fang gingerly while Hagrid putters about making tea, and eventually Hagrid sits down beside him, offering an equally oversized mug. Harry thanks him and takes a careful sip, but finds it not too hot and well-brewed, and sighs, wrapping his cold fingers around the warm ceramic happily.

“Well then,” Hagrid says, settling back into a chair that creaks slightly under his weight. “What’d you want to know, Harry?”

“Um,” Harry says, and takes another sip of tea to fortify himself, then continues, “I suppose I’d just… like to know what you remember? I don’t really think I could find the Chamber, and it sounds like there’s something rather dangerous living in it, but I’m curious.”

“Fair ‘nough,” Hagrid says, and sips his own tea, then looks up at the ceiling and recalls, “‘Twere a long time ago, y’see, and a real mess the whole thing was. You understand, Harry, I didn’t really have anything to do with that tragedy—the girl who died, and all? Neither did Aragog. He wasn’t an easy pet, and I’ll admit I shouldn’t’ve had him, but he wouldn’t’ve hurt nobody.”

“I’m sure,” Harry says, though he wonders exactly what sort of pet Aragog was that even _Hagrid_ describes him as _not easy_. They’d had a lesson with Hippogriffs, of all things, early on in the year, and that wasn’t even the height of terrifying and dangerous creatures they’d been introduced to—though Hagrid was always more or less careful with them, if perhaps not entirely aware that his students were less durable than himself.

“Well, someone surely opened that Chamber—can’t say where it might be, though. And you shouldn’t look for it, Harry. Whatever’s in there, it killed a girl stone dead and silently, no marks on her or nothin’—she laid there on the floor of that toilet a long time, people walking by out in the hall and all, and no one even knew it, because she didn’t scream or fight. Only the baddest of things can do that,” Hagrid says.

Harry swallows—and then his mind catches on a detail. “Toilet?” he asks. “She was found in a toilet?”

“Oh, aye,” Hagrid says, and takes another great gulp of his tea. “Tragedy, like I said. Little Myrtle found lying like she were sleepin’ on the floor in one of the girls’ loos—can’t recall which now, but one of ‘em.”

“Oh,” Harry says, quietly. He can imagine it with sickening clarity, all of a sudden: a girl’s sprawled form, her robes splayed around her, just… lying in the middle of the tiled floor of one of Hogwarts’ loos, as if she’d fainted, or even laid down to take a nap. No time to scream, just gone, turned from a living, breathing person into… nothing. A body. “I’m sorry, Hagrid, I’m sure this isn’t easy to talk about.”

Hagrid shakes his head. “It’s alright, Harry. Best you know this castle’s darker history too—better to know what’s out there, no matter what Umbridge up there might think.”

Harry smiles. “Glad you agree.” They sit in the quiet for a little while, sipping tea, and when Harry draws near the bottom of his mug he says, “Thank you, Hagrid. I suppose it was a morbid thing to be curious about, and not a nice memory for you.”

Hagrid just waves him away. “Well, ain’t a secret, is it? Better have the truth out there than the dreck that got printed in the papers. Truth be told I’m more glad you came and asked than just changin’ your mind about me.”

“Of course,” Harry says, his eyebrows shooting up. “I mean, even aside from the fact that the _Prophet_ still prints all sorts of lies, I’ve had you for a teacher all year, and talked enough with you before that, Hagrid, to know that you’re not a killer. You wouldn’t be so… negligent, I guess, even, never mind do something like that on purpose.”

Past his beard, the flush on Hagrid’s cheeks is visible. “Well, thank you, Harry. Means a lot to hear you say so. Now, finish that tea and off with you—surely you’ve got some homework to do.”

That’s true enough, so Harry nods and downs the last of his tea and pats Fang on the head one more time before heading out with a quick goodbye to Hagrid. He makes his way quickly back up to the castle, fleeing the cold, and starts trying to remember as he walks the locations of all the girls’ loos in the castle—one of them, the one where Myrtle Warren died, _must_ have a clue.

* * *

Examining girls’ loos is an objectively weird thing to do, even by the standards of things Harry’s friends are used to him doing, so he has to be careful about it. He does a lot of it at night, after curfew, sneaking out of the dorm under his Cloak and through the castle to the various toilets scattered around the school. The problem, of course, is that there’s a girls’ loo on every floor, and they’re often sort of idiosyncratically placed. He starts with the one in the dungeons, both because that’s the easiest to get to and because it seems logical to him that the Chamber is probably below the castle, so a dungeon entrance would make sense, but he doesn’t find anything there. After that, he decides to go in order of closest to furthest, in hopes that the one Myrtle Warren died in will be closer rather than further and therefore he’ll have more time to explore the Chamber if he finds it. That takes him to the ground floor, first floor, and third floor toilets—the second floor girls’ toilet is on the other side of the castle from the main staircases and has no secret passages near it, because of course it is. But after the third floor, it’s the one that makes the most sense to visit, and so he goes there next.

It’s near the end of February by then, his loo exploration limited to nighttime, and usually only once a week, on a night he knows Umbridge won’t be patrolling because he doesn’t want to be un-cautious and get caught, or lose too much sleep and pay for it in other ways. But tonight he’s checked the map and knows that the route between the Slytherin common room and the second floor girls’ loo is clear, Umbridge has been in her quarters for the last half-hour, and Blaise and Theo are asleep. He slips out of bed and into his boots, checks that the knife Snape gave him is still securely hidden within his left boot against his ankle—he goes nowhere without it nowadays—and retrieves his wand from under his pillow. He retrieves a regular cloak and his Invisibility Cloak, because the castle is bloody well freezing in the middle of the night in February, and silently he makes his way out of the dorms, through the common room, and out into the dungeons.

He doesn’t bother to bring the Marauder’s Map with him, though it’s always a comfort to have, because by now he’s got the layout of the castle near-memorized, and he doesn’t want any extra stuff on him to be confiscated if he _does_ get caught. He brings the diary, though, just in case tonight is the night; the leather-bound book is buried at the bottom of his satchel, carefully away from his hands. Every time he takes it out of his trunk to bring it on one of these jaunts, he considers all over again writing in it just one more time, to say goodbye to Tom before leaving him in the Chamber. Then he reminds himself that even thinking that is probably a sign of how much it’s a bad idea, shores up his Occlumency barriers, and keeps walking.

Harry doesn’t light his wand, navigating by slivers of moonlight cast through drawn curtains along the corridors. In other places, it’s only his own certainty of direction that guides him; some of the corridors have no windows and are utterly black, steeped in pitch and mercifully straight, so that he only needs to put one foot in front of the other until he reaches a window again, can recalibrate his vision and his sense of space, and move onward.

He passes through the central staircase room, which is always eerie at night. The staircases move and shift even with no one on them, no sound in the room but the soft whisper of air between banister posts and the soft crunch and grind of stone against stone, like a giant gritting its teeth—or cracking bones between them. Harry catches a shifting staircase luckily headed toward the second floor landing, hops off before it slides away again, and ducks through the doorway and down the hall, his feet silent against the stone floor. He’s gotten a lot better at sneaking in the past few years as he practiced walking about under his Cloak at night, keeping his breathing hushed and his footsteps swift, deliberate, and light to carry him without noise across the floor. When he’d first gotten the Cloak, he’s sure that people might still have been able to find him under it, because he couldn’t quiet his breathing or keep from shifting about anxiously, making fabric rustle and whisper. Not the fabric of the Cloak; that’s always silent, gliding against itself like something even more perfectly smooth than silk and never producing even the softest noise when he’s under it, but his own clothes are plain cotton and wool and make noise enough to sink him if he’s not careful.

Still, there’s no one in the halls tonight, not even the ghosts. The paintings are asleep, the suits of armour slouching on their pedestals, and the bare stretches of wall are untouched by the echo of passing feet. So Harry makes his way quickly onward to the second floor girls’ toilet, pushes open the door, and grits his teeth when it squeaks. Not loudly, he doesn’t think, but in the absolute silence of the castle past midnight it pierces his ears like nails on a chalkboard.

He eases it shut again behind him, lets out a soft breath when it closes silently at least, and eases off the Cloak—then barely stifles a yelp when someone says, “Who’re you?” from behind him.

Harry whirls, his eyes wide and hands white-knuckled around the fabric of the Cloak, and immediately spots the faintly flowing form of a ghost.

She’s a girl, obviously, around Harry’s own age, wearing round glasses and with her brown hair done up in pigtails. She’s wearing outdated Hogwarts robes, and he registers the Ravenclaw crest on her chest at the same time as he realizes who she must be.

“You’re Myrtle,” he blurts, and hastily shoves the Cloak into his satchel.

She scoffs. “Well, obviously,” she says, and swoops closer through the air, gesticulating dramatically. “ _Moaning_ Myrtle, _Moping_ Myrtle, that’s all anyone knows me as nowadays. But I know who _I_ am—I asked who _you_ are.”

“My name’s Harry,” he says, his mind racing. “Nice to meet you.”

She pauses, and then moves closer again, so that she can peer into his face from near-uncomfortably close. He shivers a little in the faint chill that all ghosts produce in their vicinity, but doesn’t back off. “Well, that’s unexpectedly polite of you,” she says. “It’s nice to meet you too, I suppose, Harry. What brings you to my toilet?”

“Your toilet?” he says.

“Are you daft?” she asks in return. “Yes, it’s a girls’ toilet, in case you hadn’t noticed. _My_ toilet, and if you’re just here to say stupid things or mock me you can get right back out again!”

“I’m not—“ Harry stutters, bringing up his hands to ward off her sudden temper. “I’m not here to mock you, I’m sorry. I was… well, looking for you, I suppose.”

“To throw things?” she says. “To call me names, or say rude, terrible things? That’s all anyone ever wants here now, you know! To make fun of poor, dead Myrtle!”

“That isn’t—“

“Oh, don’t even try to deny it!” she cries, and swoops away again, going to hover above the bank of sinks and cross her arms. She pouts, too.

“I’m really not here to make fun of you,” Harry says, tries to look and sound earnest; he can see her still sneaking looks at him. “I’m here to… well, find out what happened to you, I suppose.”

“What happened to me?” she says, and then gestures at herself. “I _died_ , obviously!”

“Um, yes, obviously,” Harry says. “But… how?”

“ _How_?” she says. “What an impertinent little boy you are!”

“I don’t mean to be,” Harry says apologetically. “I’m only curious. I’ll leave, if you—“

“No, wait!” she says, and flies down again to hover between Harry and the door. “Fine, fine, I’ll tell you how I died if you _really_ want.”

“That would be nice.” Harry laces his fingers together in front of him and smiles at her. “Thanks, Myrtle.”

“Well, that’s fine then,” she says, huffily, but he can see her blushing a bit—he hadn’t realized ghosts _could_ blush, but then a lot of them _are_ awfully pale. “Anyway, it went like this. You see, I was in the bathroom crying, because Olive Hornby had been teasing me about my glasses. I was sitting in my cubicle, right over there—“ she points at one of the cubicles “—and sobbing, when suddenly I heard someone come in!”

Harry shakes away the memory that had risen of Hermione’s tear-streaked face in first year, covered in dust after the attack by the troll. Too easily, she could have ended up just like Myrtle. “Someone?”

“I didn’t know who at first—I still don’t know who,” she says. “And I thought it was strange, because I had locked the door. So I stopped crying for a moment and listened, and I heard him say something odd. Some sort of foreign language, I think. Anyway, it was doubly odd because he was a boy!”

“Boys aren’t usually allowed in the girls’ toilets,” Harry says, ignoring that fact that he is currently a boy in a girls’ toilet. Students aren’t supposed to be out past curfew, either, so it’s all a bit immaterial.

“No!” she says, and whirls up into the air for a moment. Then she drifts back down and says, “So I opened the stall door to tell him to go use his own toilet, and I died!”

Harry blinks. “Uh—just like that?”

“Just like that!” she throws her arms out wide.

“Do you… know what killed you? Was it the boy?” _Was it Tom?_

“I don’t know,” Myrtle says. “I didn’t see the boy at all. I only saw a big pair of yellow eyes—just huge, really—and then I was dead. And then I came back, so that I could haunt Olive Hornby, because she deserved it for being so awful that I died.”

Harry doesn’t point out that Olive being awful hadn’t really been the reason she died, but then, maybe it was. He doesn’t know, can’t really judge. “Well, that sounds terrible,” he says. “I’m sorry that happened to you, Myrtle.”

“It _was_ terrible,” she agrees enthusiastically. “I’m so glad you think so too! And ever since then I’ve been here—well, mostly—but people are _still_ cruel to me all the time! But you’re nice, Harry.” She swoops down close, and Harry shivers again at her coldness, unable to help it. “You’re the nicest boy I’ve ever met. Do you think you’d like to stay here and talk with me some more?”

“Um,” Harry says, trying not to lean away too obviously. “Well, maybe. Can I ask just one more question? About your death?”

“Oh, I suppose,” she says, and flutters her eyelashes obviously behind her glasses.

“Where did you see the eyes?” Harry says, trying not to stare into—or _through_ —Myrtle’s own eyes.

“Over there,” she says, and points towards the sinks. “I was looking that way.”

“Okay,” Harry says. “Just, um, just a moment please.”

He maneuvers past Myrtle as best he can and heads over toward the sinks, and carefully examines them. It’s looking at the second one, just straight on in the direction Myrtle would have been looking when she stuck her head out of the toilet stall, that he spots it: a tiny figure of a snake. It looks almost like someone just carved it into the side of the tap with a knife, but when he tilts his head, its eye glints at him: a tiny inset chip of some green stone, maybe even true emerald. “Merlin,” he whispers, and ignores Myrtle asking him what he just said to step back a little from the sink. He fixes his eyes on the snake, imagines what he feels when he talks to real snakes or the painted ones, and carefully tries, “ _Open_.”

It seems too impossibly straightforward to succeed, but sure enough, there’s a low _clunk_ and then the grinding slide of tiles as the sink shifts and moves out of place, and then the others move too, making way and baring a vast gap in the floor of the toilet. It’s like a black hole, especially in the bathroom’s faint nighttime light, a pit of black that extends away into nothingness. It’s far too deep to see to the bottom of, and he suspects that that would remain true even if it were light.

“Are you going down there?” Myrtle demands.

“I…” Harry considers it, looks at her, and then says, “Yeah.” It’s late, probably near one in the morning by now, but he doesn’t know when he’ll have the chance to return here and who Myrtle might tell about his visit in the meantime. If he’s truly found it, and he’s about to succeed in his quest, he should be in and out before dawn; if he fails, he’s probably dead anyway, so it won’t matter.

“Well,” Myrtle says, staring at him. “If you die, you’re welcome to share my toilet.”

“That’s… nice of you, Myrtle,” Harry says. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

He steps up to the edge of the pit, draws his wand, and says, “ _Lumos Maxima_ ,” pouring as much force into the spell as he can. He has to squint his eyes shut against the brightness at first, and then looks down, and down, and down—the pit seems never ending. But some distance down he thinks he can see it curving into something like a stone slide. And a slide it would be, the walls of the tunnel glistening with some sort of damp mould or algae. “Ugh.” This seems far too undignified for Tom Riddle _or_ Lord Voldemort. There must be… Harry pictures the snake, the one in the portrait in the third floor corridor, and whispers, “ _Stairs._ _”_

Again, the straightforward command words—he’s not sure if it’s the words or the intention or both. But with another sound of stone against stone, this time smoother, softer, a set of winding stairs appear out of the walls of the tunnel. Harry looks at them, the smooth dark grey rock descending downward in a spiral, and swallows hard.

“You’re quite brave for a Slytherin,” Myrtle says suddenly, behind him. When he glances over his shoulder, she’s staring at him.

“I come by it honestly,” he replies, and with his free hand reaches up to touch his collarbone where his father’s lily pendant lies against his skin. With that reminder, he’s able to steel himself, and takes the first steps downward.

It’s a long, _long_ way down the tunnel. Harry doesn’t dare cast a _Tempus_ , nervous that he’ll find that somehow hours have passed and it’s morning, and far above in the world of light people are looking for him, having found him missing from his bed. Instead he just presses on, one stair at a time. After a while, they level out from a spiral into a regular downward slant, and as he steps onto the first of the straight steps descending at an angle, he hears the grind of stone above him. He glances up, and with the light of his _Lumos_ still present he can see that above him the sinks have slid back into place, and the spiral steps are vanishing too. Worried that the ones beneath his feet will go too, he hurries onward.

Eventually, the stairs come to an end, so deep that he’s sure he’s gone well past the level of the dungeons, and he steps onto a flat bit of floor. He looks around the little bubble of bright light created by his spell, taking in dingy dark walls surrounding him, the trickles of water running down them here and there and forming small streams on the floors. Also scattered about are the occasional skeletons of mice, or fragments of larger bits of bone; the latter he doesn’t want to think about, and kicks them out of his way with as much lack of care as he can conjure as he begins walking through the tunnel—maybe a sewer pipe, he thinks, or an ancient catacomb under the castle. Or both, the latter turned into the former as time forgot about the foundations of the castle. Down side passages he can spot dark iron grates blocking the passage of anything larger than a rat, and though he could turn in one place or another and take a branching path off into the shadowy bowels of Hogwarts, he feels like it would be a bad idea. So he continues on straight down the path, his wand out and lit and ready for… whatever. He still has no idea what to expect.

The end of the tunnel is marked by a massive ornate door, round and covered in intricate carvings of snakes. Stepping close, he can see that it looks like heavy black iron, not rusted at all despite its age; the magic of the castle, or perhaps of the door itself, must protect it. The snakes are set to block the door, hold it closed, but Harry eyes it and tries, “ _Open_ ,” again in Parseltongue. There’s a shift, a hiss—wordless—and then another metal snake appears and begins to slither slowly around the outside of the door. One by one, the others retract to make way for its passage, and a minute later all are clear. As soon as the tail of the animate snake vanishes once more, there’s a click, a hiss of releasing air, and the door swings slowly open on silent hinges.

Harry swallows hard. Distantly, he realizes that his hands are shaking. By force he steadies his wand hand, but can’t force himself to relax the grip that his left hand has on the strap of his satchel, even though clinging that way makes the skin on the back of his hand pull and the wounds from the blood quill ache. He takes a deep breath, though it shakes, and steps forward into what must be the Chamber of Secrets.

Despite his fear and the cold, his first thought is that there’s… a beauty to it. Austere, simple, and terrifying, but it’s a beautiful space. A large open room carved out from the raw stone, the ceiling supported all around by pillars shaped like rearing vipers, their mouths open to bare long fangs, the Chamber is magnificent. Greenish light filters through the space from… somewhere, maybe just from some ambient enchantment, and with a thought Harry extinguishes the light at the tip of his wand. He doesn’t need it right now, as he stares around, taking in the carvings and the smooth floor of the walkway beneath his feet, which leads straight and steady across the room to a massive, _massive_ statue of a man’s head.

He walks forward, his feet splashing in the shallow water that puddles here and there on the walkway, fallen in drips and drops from the stalagmites on the high ceiling. It’s impossible now that he’s met the stony gaze of that statue not to stare into it. The statue can only be of Salazar Slytherin, though Harry’s never seen so much as a textbook illustration of him; his image has been erased from history… except for here. Here, in his safest and most secret sanctum. The Chamber he built as a haven and a legacy for himself, his heirs… and his monster, wherever it is. There’s no sound in the Chamber except Harry’s open harsh breathing, no warmth except what’s slowly being stolen from his own skin. He comes to a stop in front of the statue, still staring up at it, and just stands there for a moment, trying to take it in.

He’s been looking for the Chamber of Secrets in books and in the halls and hidden passageways of Hogwarts for _months_ , driven by the need to succeed in order to save his own life. It seems surreal to really, actually be here. He can’t imagine what this space might have truly been meant for—a duelling chamber, maybe, with the long central walkway like a formal duelling platform? Or, off in the shadows to either side, are there doorways or halls that lead to other rooms and spaces, ones more fit for habitation rather than pure grandeur? He’s not sure. He needs to explore, he knows that, to find a place to hide the diary, but for the moment he just wants to soak it in.

It could be either a minute or an hour before Harry draws in a shallow breath and whispers it out, in Parseltongue without even thinking about it, “ _Lord Slytherin, Founder and forever Head of my House, I greet you_.” He bows, because it seems like the right thing to do.

And then again comes that gritty, hissing sound of stone shifting against stone. Harry freezes, and then very slowly unbends and watches as the mouth of Slytherin slides open. There's a faint hiss, so resonant that it almost sounds like a growl, echoing off the walls of the Chamber; Harry stays as still as he can, waiting for something to emerge from the black and gaping maw of the Founder. There's a shift of blackness, so deep in shadow that it almost seems like his eyes are fooling him, and then slowly, so slowly, a massive head appears in the mouth.

It's a snake—well, of course it's a snake, but it's bigger than any snake Harry has ever seen in his life. More massive by a factor of a hundred than any garden snake he'd ever met at Privet Drive, a deep shimmering green with ridges on its scales running all down its head and along its back. Its whole head, including the crown of hornlike protrusions emerging from the back of its head, raises up out of Slytherin's mouth before it opens its massive yellow eyes and looks down at Harry, its body slowly coiling out after it, until it's lying entirely on the wet stone of the Chamber's floor and staring at him.

" _Speaker,"_ it says, its voice even more rasping to Harry's ear than most snakes, as if it hasn't spoken in a very long time. " _You have come."_

 _"_ Er," says Harry, and then hastily bows again. " _Great serpent of Slytherin, I, um, hello?"_

There's a faint hiss, almost like a laugh. " _Name yourself, Speaker_."

" _I am Harry Potter,"_ he says, straightening up to meet the serpent's eye again. Its eyes are yellow, but the same hazy yellow as the snake in the portrait on the third floor—the exact same, in fact, and he studies it more closely. The same spines on its head, too, though now grown into an impressive crown; maybe it's the same serpent. " _Heir of the House of Potter and the House of Black."_

 _"Not Heir of Slytherin?"_ it says, leaning closer, and sniffs at him with a mouth open just slightly. Even that crack is enough for Harry to see that its fangs are _massive_ , the length of his forearm and almost as thick. " _No, I do not scent my friend's blood in you, though you are_ certainly _a Slytherin. But how then have you come by his gift? Did you steal it?"_

Harry shakes his head. " _My family comes from a distant land. My gift was inherited from them."_

 _"I see_ ," it says. " _Sahl spoke sometimes of branching lines of the gift. Speakers from other lands came to study with him, to learn the secrets that only Speakers can know."_

" _Interesting,"_ Harry says. " _They came here to Hogwarts?"_

_"That I remember, though he spoke of his past too, to me."_

Harry blinks, watching as the snake coils tighter, lowering its head to be more on his level. " _Were you born here?"_

" _He hatched me in this nest, yes, and bade me protect it."_ The snake snorts softly, a puff of air washing over Harry that smells of blood and spices. " _His heirs have come from time to time to guide me in that task."_

 _"Did the last heir that came to you order you to kill the girl?"_ He asks without meaning to, and flinches back slightly from the harsh wordless hiss that the snake lets out.

" _I did not mean to kill her. He told me there were threats in the school, that by petrifying the students I could scare them off. They were not harmed. But she was an accident. He thought so too, I think, because he did not call me out from the Chamber again_ — _or maybe a demonstration of the full force of my gaze was enough to destroy the threat. I do not know; he never came again."_

" _Your_ —" Harry cuts himself off, remembering suddenly reading he'd done earlier in the year for Case of Magical Creatures. Killing gaze, petrification, massive magical serpent—it's a basilisk. Belatedly, he squeezes his eyes shut, and then realized that was stupid; he'd already met its eyes. So he opens his own again. " _You are a basilisk?"_

 _"Yes,"_ it says. " _Did you not know?"_

_"No."_

There's a hissing laugh. " _That is silly. Little Speaker, you are foolish."_

 _"Probably_ ," Harry admits. " _Um, a snake in a painting told me that I should bring tribute for the Serpent Lord when I came. I think now that that was a hint that you were a basilisk."_

 _"That would make sense,"_ the snake says. By now its head is lying entirely on the floor, peering at him along its snout; even with its head flat on the ground, he can look at it eye-to-eye. " _Perhaps you met my own portrait. Sahl once made me sit still for a very long time with him while someone painted us, when I was very young."_

 _"Maybe I did,"_ Harry says. The portrait version of the basilisk, if that was what it had been, had dropped a _few_ hints in that conversation, things he'd puzzled over for a good long time. It all makes a lot more sense now. " _Lord Basilisk, do you have a name?"_

" _None that requires calling me Lord,"_ it hisses. " _I am not a Lord or a Lady in your sense. Or any sense. No: simply call me Adhafera."_

 _"Adhafera,"_ Harry replies, committing the name to memory. " _A beautiful name. Did, um, Sahl? Give it to you?"_

 _"The one you know as Salazar Slytherin, yes. I knew him as Sahl al-Assal ibn Jaizuran, but the people of this land could rarely pronounce it properly."_ It gives another great snort. " _Many non-Speakers are fools."_

 _"I can't disagree,"_ Harry says. " _Thank you for telling me. Was... was he from another land? That name doesn't sound native."_

 _"He was born far to the east,"_ it says. " _And far to the south. He lived before coming here and hatching me in a place also south, though less east. I cannot easily pronounce the name; you humans give silly names to things. But I could show you on a map."_

_"That's okay. That's very interesting; I'll bring you a map next time."_

At that, Adhafera perks up a little, its head rising up and shifting just slightly closer. " _You will come back_?" it asks.

Harry swallows, and then nods. " _Yes. It sounds to me like you've been down here alone for a very long time. I know what it's like to be locked up and forgotten."_

 _"I am not locked up,"_ it says. " _I may come and go if I wish. There are crunchy things to eat in the forest, and I go there sometimes. But... you are right. I have been alone. I sleep most of the time; I rarely even shed, now."_

 _"Before Tom_ — _the last Speaker, I mean_ — _how long were you alone?"_

A ripple passes down Adhafera's back, and it weaves its head back and forth, thinking; it looks almost like a version of a shrug. " _A long time, Speaker. I do not know. It matters little."_

Harry doesn't really share that opinion, but he'll take Adhafera's word for it. " _Well, I'll visit when I can. I'm sorry if that isn't very often. I can't tell anyone about coming here."_

 _"I understand_ ," it says. " _This is, after all, the Chamber of Secrets."_

Harry nods. Then he brushes his hand against his satchel and recalls why he'd come here at all, and he says, " _Adhafera, will you do a favour for me? I know we only just met, but it's very important."_

 _"You are not one of Sahl's heirs,"_ it says, " _so I do not need to know what you say. He said nothing to me of other Speakers._ " It sounds almost cautious.

" _No, of course not,"_ Harry says. " _This is a favour, only. Between... new friends, I hope."_

 _"It is long since I have had a friend."_ It bends its head down close again, and Harry steps forward, cautious. He considers reaching out to touch its massive snout, but decides not to. " _I will listen. Tell me what you want."_

 _"I have something that needs to be hidden,_ " he says. " _A... a secret. If I entrust its safety to you, will you keep it?"_

_"Show me."_

Harry reaches into the satchel and pulls out the diary, offers it up for the basilisk to inspect. It peers at it with one massive eye, then sniffs it carefully, then snorts.

" _It smells like death,"_ it says. " _And like the last Speaker. Where did you get this?"_

 _"From him_ ," Harry admits, feeling that there would be no point in lying. " _He knows your power as a guardian, and gave me this to give to you, that it could be protected. It's important to him."_

The basilisk makes another of those low, rumbling hisses, like the one it had made when it first emerged. " _He was not such a good Speaker,"_ it says. " _He was zealous and disinterested by turns. He smelled of death often, and lies, and hate. I served him, because he was Heir, but I will not do this for him unless he orders it himself_."

Harry swallows and withdraws the diary. " _Then... perhaps I can simply leave it here? You need not protect it, only leave it alone."_

The basilisk draws back and looks at him, and then says, " _This is important to you, too."_

 _"I cannot fail to hide this here,"_ Harry says. " _I'm sorry_."

" _No."_ The basilisk weaves its head again, thinking once more, and then says, " _I will not protect this thing for him, but I will do it for you. Hide it inside the image of Sahl, and I will protect it. Only ask if you need it returned."_

 _"Thank you_ ," Harry says, as emphatically as he can, and with the diary still clasped in his hand walks past the massive coil of Adhafera's body and heads for the statue.

It's a bit of a scramble to get back up onto Slytherin's lower lip and into the mouth, but once he's inside he finds it's easy to drop down off that same lip onto the floor, just a few feet below. To his dismay, the floor crunches beneath his feet as he lands, and he draws his wand again to cast another _Lumos_. He finds, as he looks around, that inside there are more scattered bones that he'd seen outside, and in one corner a huge piled snakeskin, clearly very old if the way it's beginning to flake off into dust is anything to go by. The entire internal chamber isn't very large, probably just big enough for Adhafera to curl up into a comfortable coil and sleep, and it's quite warm. Some ancient enchantment, he thinks, which has trapped heat in the stone and kept it comfortable for a cold-blooded creature, still lasting even after a thousand years or more since Salazar Slytherin—Sahl al-Assal—had cast the spells.

Harry walks carefully over crackling bones across the space and toward the back wall, where there's a slightly larger pile. Maybe it's disrespectful to place Lord Voldemort's diary on a pile of snake poo, but Harry can't see a better place for it, and lays it down carefully amidst the bones of mice and birds and other things, shattered to bits in Adhafera's stomach and so ancient that he can no longer identify most of them. Then he steps back, looks at it once more, and turns away.

The basilisk is waiting patiently for him when he clambers back out of the statue, and he bows deeply to it.

" _No need_ ," it says. " _I will go back and sleep a little more, I think, Speaker Harry."_ His name sounds odd in Parseltongue. " _If you need me, call in Parseltongue, with the strength of your will behind it, and if you are anywhere within the bounds of Hogwarts I will hear and answer."_

" _Thank you,"_ Harry says once more, bows again, and begins to make his way out. He hears Adhafera slithering back toward the statue behind him, and abruptly remembers something. He whips back around, and says, " _Adhafera!"_

 _"Yes, just like that_ ," the basilisk says, sounding as amused as he's ever heard a snake sound. " _What is it, little Speaker?"_

 _"How do I get back out of here?"_ he asks, embarrassed.

An entertained hiss, and then it says, " _Ask the passageway for stairs, as I assume you did to get down. If you do not feel up to the climb, tell it also, 'Up'."_

 _"Thank you!"_ Harry bows again quickly, waves, and heads for the exit.

It's easier and less terrifying to get out of the Chamber than it was to get in, now that he's met and more-or-less befriended the mythical monster that dwells within. He closes the door tightly behind himself and, as Adhafera had told him, makes his way back to the passage, asks for stairs, and then hisses, " _Up,"_ as if he were calling a broom. Immediately the stair he stands on begins to slide upward, and when it reaches the spiral to rotate around, much like the stairs up to Dumbledore's office; he can't help but wonder if whoever had made this had also made those. Wouldn't that be a shock, for those who insisted on claiming that Slytherin and those who followed his path had nothing good to add to the school.

And really, did anyone know _anything_ about Salazar Slytherin? That hadn't even been his name—he'd been Arab, maybe, from some other faraway place, a teacher and a scholar, one who'd known a whole branch of magic that was inaccessible to anyone not a Parselmouth. No one really _could_ know half of what he could do. But Harry... Harry wants to know. It's not his legacy, not really—the Potter family's Parseltongue gift came from the Indian part of his family line, not from any relation to Slytherin. But it's part of him, and he hopes that Adhafera will have some wisdom to offer. He'll be back, for sure, and he'll have plenty of questions to ask the basilisk when he returns.

For the moment, however, he needs to get out of the Chamber and back to his dorm. When he emerges into Myrtle's toilet, it's still dark, but a quick _Tempus_ tells him that it's past four in the morning; he'd spent much longer than he thought walking through the darkness below, speaking with Adhafera, and then returning. He waves off Myrtle's questions, extracts a promise not to tell anyone he'd been in exchange for a promise to visit her again, and swings the Invisibility Cloak around his shoulders.

Half four in the morning is still a silent hour in the castle, but soon enough early birds will be rising from their beds, among them some of the professors. Harry usually runs closer to half six, but he's seen Professor Flitwick in the halls at that time once or twice, and Professor Sprout in the greenhouses as he passed by. There's no guarantee that he'll remain undetected if he dawdles, so he doesn't. It doesn't take too long to make his way back across the castle, though he's stalled for a nerve-wracking ten minutes in the staircase hall waiting for the castle to cooperate, and soon enough he's slipping silent and unseen back into the Slytherin common room. No one is there, and he feels like he's got a moment to breathe, so he takes off his Cloak and stows it, and smiles at the snake above the fireplace.

" _Hello_ ," it says to him. " _You're up rather early, little Speaker_ — _and come from the wrong direction, I believe."_

 _"I was making friends,"_ he tells it.

It hisses out a laugh, higher and clearer than Adhafera's bass rumble. " _With who?"_ it asks. " _Owls?"_

 _"Adhafera,"_ he tells it, and it goes very, very still in its frame. " _I wondered if you might know it."_

 _"She is known to all the snakes in the castle,"_ the portrait says, " _though we are forbidden to speak of her to those who do not know her as well. You did well to find her."_

 _"Thank you,"_ Harry says. " _I got very lucky."_

 _"Indeed you did,"_ the snake hisses. " _The boldness of a Gryffindor, the dedication of a Hufflepuff, and the curiosity of a Ravenclaw... those things are what it takes to find the Chamber, surely. And Slytherin's gift to access it. You are a very interesting hatchling."_

 _"I try,"_ Harry says, sweeps a dramatic bow, and then walks away from the sound of its second laugh. He makes his way back to his dorm, changes out of his nighttime walking clothes and into pajamas, and considers his bed. He's exhausted, but he knows that if he sleeps only for a few hours and then has to get up for class he'll probably feel worse. With a resigned sigh, he digs out writing supplies, his Ancient Runes textbook, and the runic worksheet Babbling had assigned last class, and goes to sit at his desk. When Blaise and Theo wake up they'll be incredulous to find him working, of course, but at least a claim that he couldn't sleep will be more-or-less true; it's just that rather than insomnia or nightmares, as he's had at times in the past, it was because he'd had better things to do. But they don't need to know that part.

Before he sets himself to his homework, however, he uses a scrap of parchment and a quill to write a quick note to Professor Snape requesting a meeting. That, at least, he can send openly without scrutiny; thank Merlin, he thinks not for the first time, that his Death Eater contact happens to also be his Head of House. They can conspire about as openly as they want, and no one will suspect a thing—at least, not more than they usually suspect Slytherins. But not one person's wildest dreams could match up to the news Harry has for Snape this time; of that, he's very, very sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Salazar Slytherin as a Spanish Moor is not my idea originally, though I've written my own take on it. I hope people find it interesting!


	13. Rights and Privileges

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahaha.... so. I'm alive! Mostly.
> 
> Thank you all so much for the comments and kudos over this little break in posting--it wasn't intentional, I've just been... very overwhelmed with my dissertation and also, as it happens, super fucking depressed. Hearing from you that you're enjoying my work has been a bright spot in my days for the past while and I'm very grateful. 
> 
> In return, I would like to offer you this insanely stressful chapter! Please enjoy! I will do everything I can to get back on a regular posting schedule so that you don't have to stew in this one for too long (no cliffhanger ending, I promise, but WOW DOES EVERYTHING SURE HAPPEN A LOT IN THIS CHAPTER HAVE FUN LOL).

Snape's response to Harry's note comes almost immediately, setting a meeting time for the following week. The 1st of March is a Tuesday and Snape chooses that day, after dinner of course, so Harry sleeps off his all-nighter and tries to get on with his life like normal for a few days. He halfway succeeds, he thinks. He hangs out with Blaise and Theo and Neville and Hermione; tries to study alone in the library and is silently ambushed halfway through the free period by Luna, who appears like a ghost and sits by him with quiet insistence on keeping him company; and on Monday, a clear day, there's a pickup Quidditch game in the afternoon which he spends playing Chaser—poorly, but that's okay—because Cho Chang shows up this time and Harry decides not to make an issue of her silent but clear _dibs_ on playing Seeker opposite Cedric. It's a good few days, despite the significant pit of anxiety in his stomach that he ignores with mixed success. On the one hand, he's maybe about to face Voldemort again. On the other hand, he _succeeded._ He actually found the Chamber of Secrets and hid the diary as Voldemort had ordered, and now that he's friends with Adhafera—a female basilisk, apparently, according to the snake portrait above the Slytherin fireplace—he can get it back at any time if he needs it. He's riding high on the triumph, a little, feeling like he did last year after winning a Quidditch game.

He's sure his friends notice; Hermione smiles at him more in those few days, and Blaise looks amused by his energy. None of them say anything, but it makes him glad to see them glad that he's... glad, he supposes. They really are his friends.

February becomes March without fanfare, and Harry goes to Arithmancy and Charms and Herbology and then to dinner, and then he shoves a regular cloak into his satchel and heads for Snape's office, offering Blaise and Theo an excuse about having questions about the Potions essay, which makes both of them sigh in agreement.

He genuinely _does_ have questions about the Potions essay, but he’s probably not going to have time to ask, he thinks with his own sigh as he makes his way down the dungeon corridor to Snape’s office. He doesn’t really think that he’ll be called to report to Voldemort tonight, but Snape is sure to grill him for details, and that’ll take a while. In some ways Harry’s visit to the Chamber of Secrets was very straightforward, and in other ways not at all—plus, he remembers, Snape still doesn’t know he’s a Parselmouth. He’ll have to reveal it, much as he’d prefer not to.

Snape’s office door is closed but not locked, and Harry slips inside without waiting for a response to his perfunctory knock. The fire in Snape’s fireplace has been stoked up so that the room is more brightly lit than usual, and Snape is standing in front of it, his hands clasped behind his back. He turns to look at Harry as he enters the room, and nods to him. “Potter.”

“Good evening, Professor,” Harry says, returning the nod with a shallow bow. “Thanks for meeting with me.”

“No need for pretence,” Snape says. “What do you need to tell me?”

No need for delay, either. “I found the Chamber,” Harry says. Snape’s eyes go wide, and then narrow, intense. “The diary has been hidden.”

“Good.” Snape draws his wand, and Harry twitches back slightly, wanting to draw his own. Snape doesn’t aim at him, though; instead he swirls his wand in a now-familiar pattern and murmurs, “ _Expecto Patronum._ ”

The silver mist that appears from his wand swirls into a cloud and then settles, condensing into the elegant shape of a doe. She flicks her ears, tilts her head to look at Harry briefly, and then trots over to press her snout into Snape’s open hand. He allows it for a moment, a complicated expression on his face, and then says, “To Albus Dumbledore, if he is alone: The boy has completed his task. I cannot delay in fulfilling my orders. If we are unable to return before dawn, I will inform you.”

The doe bows her head, looks at Harry one more time, and then picks up her hooves and races off through one of the walls. Harry stares after her, and then says, “That’s very impressive, sir. She’s beautiful.”

“She is,” Snape says, and then shakes his head. “Come. Upon the reported completion of your quest I am to bring you to the Dark Lord _immediately_.”

Harry snaps his head around to look at Snape, and swallows hard. “Oh.”

“Indeed. With me, Potter.”

Snape leads the way out of the castle the same way they’d gone once before, though this time with the addition of a Disillusionment charm to hide them from the eyes of the few students in the halls in the gap of time between dinner and curfew. There are less than there might have been, everyone avoiding Umbridge’s eyes by taking shelter in study halls, hidden corners, or common rooms. Harry is still waiting for her to shift the curfew so that no one is permitted to be in the halls outside of detentions, class, or meals; that seems the logical next step, if his experience with the Dursleys has taught him anything. After that, he thinks, detentions during mealtimes so that those who misbehave are deprived, and so on from there—or maybe someone will stop her before that, though even thinking such a thing seems like tempting fate.

It’s already dark outside the castle, winter’s early night coming quick and lying heavy in the castle’s northern skies. But the quality of the darkness is different, as if even the dark grey clouds overhead know that it’s still only just an hour past dinnertime, and not yet time for sleep. Harry considers that as they walk, staring up at the sky. Overcast and blandly grey, looming, the clouds aren’t welcoming at all, but… they are familiar. Everything about Hogwarts, even the parts that are scary, are familiar. They haven’t even properly left yet and he can’t wait to be back; he’s sure that the evening will be an ordeal. Even Snape hadn’t seemed sure they’d be back before dawn, and _that_ is not good news.

Snape doesn’t drop the Disillusionment until they reach the ward boundary, and then he offers his arms with a brisk, “Hold on.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry murmurs, and clasps Snape’s arm tightly. A moment later, he feels the squeeze of Apparition close around him and closes his eyes as well, trying to stay as still as he can. It works fairly well, and he only stumbles a little when they land. He takes a deep breath to steady himself and the opportunity of the moment to Occlude, closing his shields around his mind as tightly as he can. With several more months of regular practice, including the maintenance he’d had to do while he was writing to the diary, it’s the work only of a few seconds; he knows his mental landscape extremely well now, what to hide and what to show, and it’s much easier to lay everything into place. He makes sure that the memory of the Chamber is near the surface of his thoughts—also not difficult, because he’s rarely stopped thinking of it since he met Adhafera—and then opens his eyes again.

Snape is watching him, his black eyes fathomless. “You are prepared?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Harry says, conjuring a bit of Sirius’s blithe confident cheer. Boldness, he thinks. He’s a Slytherin, but it’s easy and natural to wear the boldness of a Gryffindor like a cape, and it makes him different from the Dark Lord and all his other followers. He doesn’t _want_ Voldemort’s attention, but he’s already got it, so he might as well try to shape the impression that he makes; so far, he thinks he’s come across more as a coward than anything else, and that’s just not the truth.

No lie can be sustained forever, he thinks, glancing down at his bandage-wrapped left hand. Better to go with something that’s more real.

Snape turns then and begins to walk toward the fence. Harry remembers it; they’re back at Malfoy Manor, with its intricate wards traced in filigree all around the boundary of their property. Sturdier than it looks, of course, though he imagines briefly the way the fence would warp and break if someone were to blast right through it with a _Bombarda_. The destruction would be beautiful in its own way. Then he shakes that thought away and follows Snape through the wards without violence, and up to the austere manor. Grand as he remembers it, maybe more so now that his eyes aren’t half-blind with fear and cold.

As they approach the large double doors of the manor, they swing open, pushed by a house elf. Snape glances down at it, and then up to where a figure has appeared in the doorway. Harry looks as well and recognizes the slim and graceful form of Narcissa Malfoy, somewhat to his surprise—though he probably shouldn’t be surprised at all, given that this is her house.

“Severus,” she calls from the door. “Welcome! We weren’t expecting you. And—oh, Harry! What—“

“Narcissa. Is there a gathering tonight?” Snape asks, approaching. “I wasn’t called.”

She shakes her head. “It’s the middle of the week.” They reach the doorway and she reaches out to grasp Snape’s shoulders and pulls him down to brush kisses against each of his cheeks; he endures it. “He told Lucius that we should expect to see you called on the weekend, to catch you up on tonight’s discussion.”

“I see.” Snape leans back, glances down at Harry, and then says, “Well, I apologize for arriving unannounced. Things are happening… quickly, at Hogwarts. I could not delay.”

“No, no,” she says, and ushers them into the foyer, warmly lit in contrast to the darkness outside. A house elf appears, takes their cloaks, and vanishes again. “You’re welcome, of course. The inner circle is gathered.”

Harry, watching out of the corner of his eye, sees Snape’s jaw go tight. “This will be interesting then,” he says, and his voice shows none of his tension. Harry doubts that Narcissa missed it any more than he himself did, though.

She turns to Harry, then, and curtseys lightly. “I cannot say I expected to see you here, though my husband told me of your… circumstances, cousin.”

Harry bows in return and follows as she begins to walk, leading him and Snape through the manor toward some distant room. “I wasn’t expecting to find myself here tonight either,” he admits. “But I have news for our Lord, and the professor seemed to think it best I report in person.”

Narcissa hums. “Well, it is a unique opportunity.”

“I think I should enter alone and introduce him,” Snape interjects abruptly. “Reactions are likely to be volatile, otherwise.”

“The Dark Lord surely knows who you’ve brought.”

“I did not warn him,” Snape says. “I had no time.”

“Ah,” she says. “Even so. He surely knows you’ve come.”

“Yes—and probably could assume why, and that I’ve brought the boy, since I’ve come without being summoned. My instructions were clear.”

She pauses, turns to look at Snape, study him; then she studies Harry for a moment. It’s quiet in the hall, the portraits on the walls watching them silently. “You know him better than I,” she says softly, after a long moment of consideration. “I will take your word for it.”

“Let no one say you are not most wise among witches,” Snape replies, bowing his head briefly. “Come, Narcissa; we should not keep our Lord waiting.”

“No, indeed.” She starts walking again, leading them through the halls. As with all magical architecture, Malfoy Manor is in some ways labyrinthine; its halls are straight and square, not wandering as Hogwarts’s sometimes do, but there are often intersections or stairways leading up or down, and Harry can imagine easily getting lost here without a guide or good knowledge of the place. He can’t help but wonder if wixen build their strongholds this way on purpose, or if it’s just the influence of magic on a space over time; the manor has a sense of age about it, though not nearly as much as Hogwarts.

Part of it is the artwork—there’s so _much_ of it. Portraits, of course, but also tapestries and beautiful vases, art from all parts of the world and places in time. There’s a museum-like feeling to the halls that Harry has observed before; everything here is on display.

Abruptly, Harry feels sorry for Draco Malfoy. He hates Privet Drive, of course, and every second spent there was misery, but he can’t imagine growing up in a place like this either. He can’t imagine the reaction to Draco breaking or dirtying one of these precious, valuable things by accident as a small child being any better than Aunt Petunia’s reaction when Harry had dropped a mug or a plate, even with the ability to repair things by magic. Even though Draco was loved, and Harry wasn’t. For a given value of love, of course. He can see clearly all of a sudden Draco being put on display much like one of the art objects they walk past: valued, but only for as long as it’s _valuable_. It would explain a lot about his obsession with reputation.

Then they take a turn and pass out of the main hall and into a narrower one, with dark wood panelling on the walls. Not a private hallway, exactly, not hidden, but… not meant for the public eye, either. At the end of that hall is a door, open a crack to allow out a sliver of light and the muffled sound of voices.

Narcissa pauses there once more and turns to Snape and Harry. “Severus?”

“Lead the way, Narcissa.” He makes a smooth gesture, his skin pale in the sepia shadow of the hall and against the black of his clothing, and she nods and turns to push the door open. Harry stays back a little as Narcissa enters first, disappearing into the room; he can’t see well through the door, and even less so once Snape follows her to stand in the doorway. He doesn’t move further though, lingering there.

Harry can hear Narcissa say, “My lord, Severus has arrived.”

“I see that,” comes Voldemort’s smooth tenor. “Thank you, Narcissa; please, join your husband. Severus.”

Snape bows deeply, and Harry catches a glimpse of a room furnished in black and burgundy, lit well by some unseen source within. “My lord,” he says. “I apologize for arriving uninvited to this gathering, but my orders compelled me.”

“From Dumbledore?”

Harry sees Snape shake his head. “From yourself, my lord.”

There’s a moment’s pause, and then, soft and sibilant, the Dark Lord says, “I see. Present the boy, Severus.”

Harry swallows hard, and that’s all the time he has to brace himself before Snape turns and gestures him forward. Snape steps further into the room, allowing Harry to come to the doorway and finally see into the room.

It’s a conference room of sorts, clearly meant for intimate gatherings and meetings, mostly filled with a large rectangular table around which twelve people are seated. Harry’s eyes go first to the distant head of the table, where Voldemort has risen from his seat, his hands sliding into his sleeves—the gesture Harry had seen on Dumbledore not so many days ago looks much more sinister now. He wants to study the other faces in the room, knows that among them must be the Death Eaters escaped from Azkaban, the notorious inner circle of Voldemort, but he can’t look away now. Instead, he bows deeply, and when he rises takes another step forward, fully into the room.

There’s the faintest twitch from Voldemort, the movement of his fingers within one of his sleeves, and behind Harry, the door swings shut with a click that rings in his ears.

“I take it,” the Dark Lord says, still soft, “that your coming here means you have completed the task I set for you, Harry?”

“Yes, my lord,” Harry says.

“Hm.” He withdraws his hands from his sleeves to shift his chair back with another smooth gesture—the shows of wandless magic are interesting and no small bit scary, because Harry knows that it’s not nearly as effortless as it looks. And then he glides around the table, passing seated Death Eaters. Harry watches him move; he’s inhumanely graceful, serpentine, swift, and smooth. It feels like it should take him longer to move behind half of his inner circle—including Snape, who’s now seated near the end of the table, Harry sees—to stand directly in front of Harry, filling his vision. Then he takes even one step further, so that there’s very little space between them, Voldemort looming over him; Harry is very conscious of how close the door is to his back.

“Are you lying to me, Harry Potter?” Voldemort says, making firm eye contact.

Harry looks back, feeling captured by the Dark Lord’s garnet stare. “No, my lord,” he says. “I would never.”

One dark eyebrow raises. “Somehow I doubt that. But perhaps you are telling me the truth about this. _Legilimens_.”

There’s never going to be any _real_ way to be ready for the vicious intrusion of Voldemort’s mind, the pressure of him against his own thoughts, punching deep. But he makes way through his shields as best he can so that they’re not torn to pieces in a way that will leave the lingering damage he remembers from last spring, tries to relax, to let Voldemort see the memory he seeks: Harry’s encounter with Adhafera.

Of course, that’s not all Voldemort wants. He digs for anything he can find relating to the diary, and finds plenty, not least all of Harry’s late night conversations with the spirit of Tom Riddle. Harry experiences a strange doubling of reality; Voldemort is being… careful, almost, so Harry isn’t lost in the flood of memory as he has been in the past, and it means he watches memory play out even as he also stares up at the Dark Lord’s face, watching his aristocratic features settle into a look of concentration. Something has him walking slowly, methodically through Harry’s memories of everything he’d said to Tom—and everything Tom had said back. Maybe… but Harry doesn’t have the space to process that, because Voldemort moves past the diary conversations, Harry's feelings for and about Tom, and on to Harry’s sleuthing, his conversations with snake statues and portraits. He slows there, as well, watches Harry converse in Parseltongue—and in the present moment, the Dark Lord smiles. The smile is genuinely pleased and amused, but it lies over a cold calculation that Harry can feel the creeping fingers of in his mind, the shiver of shallow warmth against his thoughts like the first few inches of the Black Lake in June before meeting the still-frigid depths. He'd never have known the truth of the feeling on Voldemort's face if their thoughts weren't so intertwined, but there's no escaping it when Voldemort's emotions are brushing right up against his own.

Then comes the conversation with Hagrid, and Harry has stored that conversation in his mental library with his research, divorcing it entirely from the soft fondness he feels for his Care of Magical Creatures professor, which lives out in the fresh air of his mental Hogwarts’ grounds. So Voldemort sees a version of the conversation painted with the colours of manipulation, and his smile widens; even further when he sees the conversation with Myrtle in the same light.

And then, the Chamber. The memory begins with Harry stepping down the stairs into the tunnel down, and the Dark Lord drags it out, making it clear that he’s studying every second, hunting for signs of deception, of fabrication. But Harry couldn’t have made such a thing up if he tried.

His conversation with Adhafera draws a low hiss from the Dark Lord, surprise or some other emotion flashing across his face, and as soon as the memory has played through, the connection between their minds breaks, leaving Harry reeling. Before Harry can stumble back, Voldemort's hand snaps out, viper-fast, to grab Harry’s chin and tilt his face up forcefully.

“ _You are a mystery, aren_ _’t you, Harry Potter?”_ Voldemort says in Parseltongue. It’s only recent practice that allows Harry to distinguish it from English, the magical gift being what it is, but he can hear the hissing undertone to the words now—and he can hear the muffled gasps and small noises from the Death Eaters gathered at Voldemort’s back.

Harry keeps his eyes on Voldemort and conjures Adhafera in his mind, so that when he speaks, it’s Parseltongue that emerges in reply. “ _We all have to have some secrets, my lord. That Chamber is a good place for them._ _”_

Another, louder reaction comes from the gathered inner circle, and Voldemort actually _laughs_. Harry’s eyes go wide, and Voldemort lets him go; he nearly falls to his knees but manages to catch himself. He’s still nearly pinned between the Dark Lord and the door, but he keeps his feet, at least.

“ _Very well then,_ ” the Dark Lord says. “ _I believe I shall have a use for you soon enough, Harry._ Come, join us at the table. Narcissa, find the boy a seat.”

The switch of languages makes Harry blink, his brain briefly protesting, but he bows his head and takes a steadying breath as the Dark Lord turns away and heads back to his own seat. Narcissa rises, white-faced, from where she’d sat down next to her husband near the end of the table and retrieves a footstool from the corner, which she transfigures with a flick of her wand and a murmured word into a simple chair. She places it at the end of the table beside Snape’s chair, and Harry sits down, then leans forward and cranes his neck slightly to see.

“Well then,” Voldemort says, and makes a sweeping gesture at the front of the table. “I believe you were interrupted, Lucius, by the arrival of our guests. Go on.”

Malfoy, seated at Voldemort’s right hand, clears his throat. “You wish me to continue even with… new ears in the room, my lord?”

“Yes,” Voldemort says. “I doubt young Harry will share what he hears—and if he does, he knows the consequences.”

Harry nods, folds his hands on the table, and settles in to listen as Malfoy begins a report. He takes in the information as best he can, but there are a great number of names that Harry doesn’t recognize—Ministry personnel, he assumes, and a great number of contextless mentions of laws being debated in and around the Wizengamot at the moment mostly without any real explanation. The latter Harry does his best to remember, because some of it sounds like information that Dumbledore might want to pass to Sirius, but for all that Lucius Malfoy is a problem, he’s at least a _known_ problem and one that Sirius has managed to stymie fairly effectively on the political front as far as Harry has been able to tell. His mentions of _persuading_ Ministry officials to his side is more interesting, especially when Malfoy makes an offhand reference to Amelia Bones still being a _barrier_. That’s something to be aware of, Harry thinks, and tucks the information away. But he really only needs half an ear to catch names and tuck them away in a new wing of his internal Occlumency-built library, and so he finally takes the opportunity to take in the occupants of the room.

Some are faces he’s seen before, at the solstice meeting last summer. Lord Flint and Lord Nott, Lady Parkinson, the Malfoys of course, all looking refined and coifed as always. No cloaks and masks tonight. As well, Barty Crouch Jr. is seated diagonally across the table from Harry, slouching in his chair with a bored expression. A trusted member of the circle, maybe, but clearly not one for politics. And beside him, the Carrows. Pettigrew is a notable absence; maybe he’s busy? Or else simply not considered a member of the inner circle? Harry isn’t sure. But they’re joined by three new faces: two men and a woman, all seated to Voldemort’s left, and those faces Harry recognizes too, though not because he’s met them before. The Lestranges have the mark of Azkaban on them, all of their faces still gaunt and pale even after several months free, and Bellatrix Lestrange, seated at Voldemort’s left hand, is staring back down the table at Harry with a spark in her grey eyes—the same distinctive dark grey as Sirius's—that sends a shiver down his spine. Or would, if just looking at her didn’t set so much tension into his back and shoulders that he feels like he’s about to snap like a spring wound too tight.

She, and her husband and his brother beside her, had been responsible for the torture of Harry’s parents. As much as Barty Crouch, seated beside Narcissa, and as much or more than Peter Pettigrew, who’s out of sight but very much in mind. They’re the reason Harry had grown up with the Dursleys, hadn’t known he’s a wizard, had been mistreated and denied and _unloved_. That sharp stare tells Harry that Bellatrix is as mad as his mother—but Bellatrix gets to walk around, to sit by the side of her Lord and plot the downfall of the world that Harry has come to love… and his mother is lying in a hospital bed, empty as a corpse.

He has to stuff the rage down, bottle it up. He can’t, _can_ _’t_ do anything here, now. He’ll be killed for sure. But he _wants_ to. He wants to jump up from his chair and onto the table, to run over and kick her husband in the face and then wrap his hands around Bellatrix’s throat. Sirius and Remus have told a few grim, haunted stories about her, the things she’d done in the last war; Sirius had called her insane and dangerous, and looking at her, at her wild black hair and hollow cheeks, he can believe it. She deserves anything he could dish out. But he can’t.

So he sits there and tries not to let himself look at her. He watches the Dark Lord instead, because the man has enough magnetism to keep Harry’s attention even trapped in a room with the people he wants to see dead the very most. His expression is calm as he listens to Lucius report, and then turns his attention to the Carrows and asks them questions about their work. Harry tries to tune back in, gathers that they’ve been abroad in Bulgaria talking to some fellow named Karkaroff—well, _talking_ ; it sounds more like _intimidating._ Harry stores that information away as well, hoping that he remembers.

Then Voldemort turns his attention down to Harry and Snape at the end of the table, and says, “Severus, I expected to have to gather your report on the weekend, but since you are here: what is the state of things at Hogwarts?”

Snape clears his throat and sits forward a little. “Umbridge continues to consolidate power. I believe her next step will be to attempt to oust Dumbledore entirely on some trumped-up or entirely invented charge. She needs to claim the role of Headmistress to have any greater say in castle happenings.”

The Dark Lord hums. “Do you believe she’ll have any luck in that? Having him out, and both him and the castle vulnerable, could be to our great advantage.”

“I would be cautious of attacking the castle even if she does succeed in taking control and having Dumbledore removed,” Snape says. “Her actions have caused the students—from all _four_ Houses—to rally together in defence of their own liberties. Any outside threat at this point would be met with considerable resistance.”

“What do you think of that, Harry?” Voldemort says, transferring his heavy gaze.

Harry startles, then collects himself; Voldemort waits with surprising patience. So Harry tilts his head, considering. “I think Professor Snape is probably correct, my lord. As you know, I’ve cultivated relationships in other Houses, so I can say with some authority that no one is happy about Umbridge. There’s a feeling of… affront, I suppose. She’s assaulted what Hogwarts is _supposed_ to be.”

“Which is?”

That one Harry needs to think about for a moment, and Voldemort waits for him to find the words. “It’s… a home to a lot of the students,” Harry finally begins, slowly. He thinks back on Tom Riddle, the diary shade, and all the things he learned from it—he’ll have to tread carefully, but… “Especially for those of us deprived of our birthright growing up. You see, my lord, I didn’t understand that I was a wizard when I was a kid. I thought I was a freak. Getting my Hogwarts letter meant I wasn’t mad—it was all _real_. And because of that, the castle… it _is_ magic. But Umbridge, she wants to put limits on that. She wants to dictate to us what magic we can and can’t use, just based on what’s _legal_.”

He lets himself lean in over the table, meet Voldemort’s eyes, get heated. “You know she tried to tell me that the House of Black’s wards were inferior because they’re Dark? She’s a narrow-minded fool, who defines ‘good’ as ‘Light’ and ‘Light’ as ’legal’—never mind that laws can be changed, but magic, _real_ magic, just _is_.” He sits back, takes a breath, and says, “I apologize, my lord. I didn’t mean to, um, get worked up.”

“No, no,” the Dark Lord says. He sits back and folds his slender hands together on the table in front of him. “I find the perspective of the next generation… enlightening.”

“I’m glad to hear it, my lord,” Harry says. “Umbridge doesn’t. She treats us like infants—but we’re the future of the magical world, especially those of us of noble lineages and with strong magic. She’ll get hers for crossing us, I’m certain. It’s only a question of when the dam breaks. And, well, Professor Snape is right—she might get rid of Dumbledore, but she’s brought the school together trying to do it, I think. You _might_ be able to win over the students if you stepped in and got rid of her, but more likely whatever force you sent against the castle would just get caught in the wave.”

Voldemort gives a considering nod. “I have no plans at present to take Hogwarts. Certainly that is one of the ultimate goals—it must be—but the time is not right. Severus, do you agree with Harry’s analysis?”

“I do,” Snape says. “Mr. Potter has an unusual insight into the students’ collective psyche, it seems.”

“Indeed. Well. A keen mind you have, Harry; perhaps you should have been in Ravenclaw.”

A few of the Death Eaters seated around the table laugh. “No, sir,” Harry says, as politely as he can. “I just learned very young that to survive, you have to understand the people around you—how they tick, how to make them angry or make them calm. Right about now, Umbridge is doing a great job of making everyone very, very angry, and anger always has to go somewhere. I wouldn’t want to see it all poured out on you.”

Voldemort smiles. “Your concern is appreciated.” Then he moves on.

Harry slumps down a little in his seat, feeling a bit wrung, and then jumps when he feels something touch his leg beneath the table. He glances down and realizes that Snape has prodded him gently, and looks up at him, questioning. When their eyes meet, he feels a press against his Occlumency shields and opens the first layer to catch a thought, projected into his mind: _Very clever, Mr. Potter._

Harry smiles wryly, and shapes a thought in return where Snape can see it: _I_ _’d say very Slytherin, sir._

Snape cuts his eyes away then, but Harry figures he got it.

There’s one more report after that, from Rabastan Lestrange. He and his brother have been active in the magical underworld, trying to gather support for the Dark Lord, with mixed success—a lot of Dark wixen and creatures, those living on the margins of society, are ready for a change, but they also remember how things went last time.

At the end of his report, he says in his raspy voice, “It will take a show of strength to convince them, my lord.”

Voldemort nods. “Worry not, Rabastan. I have a thought or two in mind to convince them—but that is for later.” He rises from his seat again and smiles at the gathering. “Thank you all, my loyal ones, for joining me tonight. Revelations and progress both have been had, and I am pleased with you all. Our cause is strong, and advances apace; soon, the magical world will deny no longer my return—though of course I thank you, Lucius, for your diligence in ensuring that no one opens their eyes until it is time to show them the truth: that I cannot be stopped. The march of the Dark is inexorable, a force for progress toward a more free magic, a world unbound and uninhibited—and untainted. We dwell in the margins for now, crawling around the edges of legalities,” he nods to Malfoy, “and of society at large,” and to Lestrange, “but that will not be the case for long. Soon the time will come for the wixen of this world to join us… or die.”

Bellatrix cackles, slamming a hand down on the table; others join her, adding thumps of fists against the wood or vicious cheers. Voldemort allows it for a moment, and then raises a hand, bringing silence in an instant. “All of you have those who answer to you in turn, and I will be ready soon to call a larger gathering. Ready those you are in contact with, and be prepared to bring new recruits before me—though I doubt any will surpass dear Severus’s efforts in that regard.” And he looks at Harry, smiles, another of those slick expressions, clean warmth over decay, whitewash on a mouldering wall. “Thank you, especially, Harry, for coming to join us tonight. Truly, your keen foresight in coming to my side now, when all others are ignorant and deluded, is a sign of how well you represent the best of this generation to come—to say nothing of the gifts you bear, which mark you as worthy of bearing the mark of our shared cause.”

Harry bows his head to hide the clench of his jaw. He _is_ Dark, because Parseltongue is a Dark gift… but every compliment that Voldemort delivers, every reference to the things they share, makes his skin crawl more. Soon he thinks even Occlumency isn’t going to be enough to keep him calm, and he desperately hopes that Voldemort’s speech means the evening is over and he and Snape will be able to leave.

“I hope all of you will take a moment to linger,” Voldemort says, and Harry holds in his sigh, then carefully ensures that his expression stays neutral to hide the despair. “For those who have yet to reunite properly, please, do so; and bid me goodnight before you go.”

He waves his hand again, and the table vanishes, giving them space to stand and move around to speak with one another. Harry stays close by Snape’s side, anxious, and Snape seems inclined not to mingle actively, simply standing to wait for others to approach him. Harry looks around the room, watches Flint and Nott converge on Malfoy and Narcissa as he’d more or less expected—and realizes that the Lestranges, Bellatrix in the lead, are headed their way.

“Bugger,” Harry whispers under his breath, then grits his teeth and tries to brace himself.

But the first words out of Bellatrix’s mouth aren’t for Snape. Instead, she coos, “Baby Potter!” and presses right up into his personal space, reaching out as if she’s going to pinch his cheeks.

His recoil is so far beyond his control that he doesn’t even realize he’s done it until he’s already ducked away, and then, halfway to a crouch, decides that he’s not going to stop—damn it all, he thinks. Her and her bastard husband and brother-in-law and every person in this room, he _will not_ be touched by the person whose sadism destroyed his family. He ducks the rest of the way down, and the hilt of his dagger comes easily to his hand. A smooth movement brings him back up, and he brings the blade up between them, the bared edge glinting in the firelight.

“Ooh,” Bellatrix says, swaying back a bit; around them, everyone else in the room goes still. “Itty baby has _fangs_.”

“Don’t step on a snake if you don’t want to get bit,” Harry says. His voice is so hard, so ragged with anger that he hardly recognizes it as his. “If you try to touch me, I’ll kill you.”

She laughs. “You can’t, baby Potter. You can’t do _anything_ to me.” And then she reaches out as if she’s going to grab his wrist.

He swipes at her with the blade. He’s not practiced with it; if he were, he thinks, he’d have gone straight for her eyes. As it is, he manages to slash her palm, and she shrieks as blood sprays, spattering the hardwood floor between them.

“Potter!” Snape shouts, at the same time as Voldemort appears behind Bellatrix and says, in a voice gone hard as ice and twice as cold, “Enough.”

“I warned her,” Harry snarls, but he lowers the blade, not wanting to provoke the Dark Lord further.

“You brat!” Bellatrix screams, and makes as if to lunge for him; Harry readies to raise his weapon again. But Voldemort catches her first, not with magic as Harry half-expected, but physically. He snaps a hand out, faster than human in the same way he’d grabbed Harry’s chin earlier, and snags her by the hair, yanking her back like a dog on a leash.

“I said, enough,” he says again, and with a careless wrench forces her down to the floor. “Lower your weapon, boy.”

“Yes, my lord,” Harry grits out, and obeys, much as it galls him to do it.

“What do you think you’re doing, you foolish boy!” Snape snaps, and comes over to Harry’s side to yank the knife out of his hand. “Attacking one of the Dark Lord’s most loyal followers?”

Harry glances at him. “I _warned_ her,” he insists. “I don’t care how loyal she is, that we’re on the same side of a greater cause—she will _always_ be my enemy, and if she touches me, _I will kill her_.”

“I should kill you for your impudence,” the Dark Lord says idly, and Harry’s attention is yanked back to him. Abruptly, his blood runs from hot to cold, and he wonders—but no. If Voldemort were going to execute him, he’d have just done it. “Fortunately for you, you’ve made yourself very interesting to me, Harry.”

Interesting he might be—it doesn’t stop the Dark Lord from twitching his wrist to summon his wand to his hand, the bone-white wood almost a match to the colour of his skin, like an extension of his body. Harry closes his teeth tightly, lest he bite his tongue, and a moment later the expected _Crucio_ comes. It never gets easier to endure, and Harry collapses to the ground, tightens his jaw against the screams until he feels his teeth will crack, have cracked; he’s sure his jaw must be broken, his ribs, his fingers. Pain races to the tips of his toes and echoes back, redoubled, and he twists under the spell, unable to escape. Time goes away, the ground beneath him goes away—it seems impossible, almost, that he’s still alive, except that the agony still exists, and he has to believe that if he were dead it would be _over_.

Then it ends—or doesn’t, because Harry can still feel the lingering ache, bruised and tender skin, the ragged feeling of his breath catching in a throat gone raw with screams that must have fought past his teeth at some point. His head hurts. There’s nothing left in him to spare for shame as he turns his face into the floor and weeps like the broken child he feels, every bit of strength wrung out of him until he feels like a discarded scrap of rag, shredded and filthy.

“I believe that is sufficient,” the Dark Lord says, as calm and measured as ever, as if nothing had happened; Harry chokes back a sob, and remembers that there are eyes on him. He curls up, pressing his hands up under his glasses—already askew on his face and now probably spotted with tears—and tries to slow his breathing, because it hurts to breathe right now.

Someone comes to kneel on the floor next to him, and Snape’s voice murmurs an unfamiliar spell. Harry feels a faint warmth settle over him and then dissipate; Snape gets up again without another word, not even to explain what he’s done. Harry takes one more calming breath, as deep as he can bear, and wipes the tears from his face before he uncurls and rolls over, away from where he assumes Bellatrix is still kneeling at Voldemort's feet. He lies on his back for a few seconds, working up the will to stand, but he manages and rises unsteadily to his feet.

“Very good,” Voldemort says, and smiles at him as if he isn’t the cause of Harry’s current difficulties. Then he turns to Bellatrix. “My dear, I must ask what you thought you were doing.”

“It’s been such a long time since baby Potter and I met,” she says, simpering. “I wanted to see if his cheeks were still soft, my Lord.”

“I see,” he says, mild as milk. “And the reason you disregarded his warning?”

She blinks. “Oh, my lord, you _can_ _’t_ think that an itty bitty baby _brat_ like him could be a threat to me. Even with that cute knife of his! I’d like that, baby Potter—you should give it to me.”

“It was a gift,” Harry rasps, and doesn’t look at Snape, who still has the knife held carefully by his side.

“And not the only one he bears,” Voldemort says. “I think that this ‘baby’ is more dangerous than you know.”

She scoffs, and Harry hardens his glare, scowling at her. He hasn’t summoned his wand to his hand, but he doesn’t need it. “You don’t get to touch me,” he says to her. “I’ll take any punishment our Lord wishes to deliver—you _do not_ lay a hand on me or mine, Lestrange.” He spits her surname, throws it at her feet; her expression twists.

“Don’t say it like that. I’m more a Black than you, baby Potter,” she says. “Better blood, better magic, _better_.”

Harry just laughs, the sound so harsh, so hoarse from his earlier screams that he sees Snape twitch out of the corner of his eye, and Narcissa, too, on the other side, past where the Dark Lord is standing. “I’m the Heir of the House of Black, Lestrange; you’re a daughter of a minor line. If you try to harm me, don’t think I can’t or won’t call the family magic and see what _it_ thinks of you.”

There’s a pause while everyone digests that. The Dark Lord’s red eyes fall on Harry again, one of his eyebrows rising once more. “Are you truly capable of such?” he asks. “Because if so, I might have to believe my dear Bellatrix more foolish than I currently do.”

“I’m not _foolish_ ,” Bellatrix says, at the same time as Harry nods and says, “Yes, my lord.”

“Show me,” Voldemort says.

Harry rocks back on his heels a little, then nods shakily. With the Cruciatus still lingering in his body he’s not sure he has the willpower, the steady strength necessary to call and harness the Black family magic, especially on the spot and without a ritual, but he’s going to _try_. And he’s _going_ to do it, he tells himself. He flexes his hand, readying to draw his wand, and then thinks, no.

“Professor,” he says, turning to Snape, “would you clean my knife for me?”

“Certainly, Mr. Potter,” Snape says, and with a tap of his wand and a clear “ _Evanesco_ _”_ cleans Bellatrix’s blood from the shining steel. Then he passes the dagger back to Harry, anticipating his next request.

Harry carefully uses the point of the dagger first to slice the bandages away from his left hand, letting them fall so that his palms are clear, then to prick his hands at the base of his thumb, where the pain will be less, and then rubs his hands together carefully to coat his palms and his fingers with his own blood. He places the dagger down at his feet, the blade pointing away from himself, and spreads his hands out in front of him. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and tries to find his centre—the deepest place in himself, the place that the family magic took him when he first met it with Sirius. Then he intones, “ _Familia magica_.”

There’s only a trickle at first, just the faintest hint of the raging torrent that Harry knows the Black family magic to be. And then it comes all at once, a door slamming open in his soul, out of his control and wild. He gasps, clenches his hands into fists, and grounds himself on the spark of new pain from the small wounds in his palms. It’s only barely enough, the magic bucking in his grasp; it wants to _flow_ , to run through him out into the world. What it wants to do, he’s not sure; all his attention is on keeping it under his own control.

Harry opens his eyes and finds that there are tendrils of black and silver magic spilling out of his fists, slipping between his fingers like wisps of smoke or trails of sand, vanishing off into the air. The black drips and flows, and silver floats and sparks off it; he opens his hands and the magic flares, brightens, until he’s holding black pools in the centre of his hands that burn with silver flame. He takes a deep breath, and watches the silver rise as he breathes in and fall as he breathes out, and then he looks up and meets Bellatrix’s grey eyes. In the shadow-light of the family magic, she looks twice as much like Sirius, her grey in her eyes lit as she stares at him with a desperate greed ground into the lines of her face; Harry can’t stand to look at her for longer than a second, and looks instead at Voldemort. It’s perverse to find staring down the Dark Lord easier than staring down a woman that Harry knows, _knows_ as he holds their shared family magic in his hand, that he could kill right now, where she stands. Even the thought of the desire makes the magic rear up in him, because she’s a sickness in the stream, a poison; she’s mad and _wrong_ and he can _feel_ her. He can feel her in the family magic, and it wants her gone. He could do it.

Voldemort is smiling. “Beautiful, Harry,” he says. “You could kill her, couldn’t you.”

“Easily,” Harry says, and the strain in his voice is the effort not to just _do it_. Voldemort smiles wider. “It’s harder not to, my lord.”

“Oh, lovely,” he says, and steps closer—the magic in Harry’s hands flares. “Ah, possessive; blood will always care for its own first, I know. I understand; that is the way it should be. I believe you have proven your mettle, pet.”

Harry shudders and shuts his eyes immediately, trying to play off his disgust as the effort required to call the family magic back beneath his skin, back into himself. It _does_ take effort; the magic wants to harm those who would harm him, and that’s almost everyone in this room—there’s forgiveness in it for _maybe_ Narcissa, and that’s all. He struggles with it for a moment, can't make it go without giving it something. So he whispers in his mind, into the magic: _If she hurts me, kill her_. The words fall through his thoughts and into the stream, rippling and then becoming part of the magic, an unspoken promise between him and it. And then it lets Harry shove it back like he’d shoved back his rage at Bellatrix only an hour before. He closes the door on it once more, a heavy wooden door—no, a stone door, deep in his internal Hogwarts. A stone door protected by writhing iron snakes, enchanted against rust for a thousand years, behind which now dwells the greatest protection and ally that Harry can imagine. And the magic goes, not content but obedient.

As soon as its energy is gone, Harry realizes how much it had given him, the electricity it had sent racing through his veins. He’d been full of it, so full that he had barely noticed; it had simply settled into reality, into awareness, as if nothing had ever been different. But it had been; before he’d been shaky and weak and sore, and now he’s all that as well as _exhausted_. He barely, _barely_ manages to prevent his knees from buckling, and can’t stop himself from slumping where he stands, his shoulders stooping down.

Snape steps up close behind him, not physically supporting, but ready to catch him. Somewhere, past the sudden fog of tiredness that’s fallen over Harry’s thoughts, he’s grateful.

“Very impressive,” Voldemort says, and steps close, _too_ close. This tired, Harry can’t stop himself from flinching. Voldemort only chuckles, then says in Parseltongue, “ _I intend to keep you, Harry Potter. Try not to shatter yourself against your own unbending will before I see you again._ ”

Harry wavers on his feet, and Voldemort brings up a hand—not to grab his chin, this time, but to cup his jaw and his neck. Harry’s skin is still so tender from the current of magic and from the Cruciatus curse that the long fingers lying splayed against his throat burn like brands, and he cringes under the touch.

“Past curfew for schoolboys, I believe, Severus,” Voldemort murmurs. “Take Harry home, and see him safely abed, please.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Snape says, and Harry hears the rustle of fabric as he bows. “Potter?”

Harry swallows, trying to wet his dry mouth. “Thank you, my lord.”

“Good night, Harry. Sweet dreams.” Voldemort’s hand slips away, and Harry bows as soon as the Dark Lord steps away enough that he has room. His vision goes spotty when he straightens, and he sways again on his feet, this time severely enough that Snape places a hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t pass out, but it’s close, and much more luck than willpower.

He doesn’t remember much of the trip back out of the manor and back to Hogwarts—doesn’t remember Apparating at all, which makes him think that he _did_ pass out for at least some of the trip. Snape sees him all the way back to the dorm, passing through the common room somehow without notice. Harry returns more-or-less to awareness to the sound of Snape explaining quietly to Blaise and Theo that they’d been working on a difficult piece of magic in his office hours, and that Harry would likely sleep late, and not to wake him.

Harry obeys some impatient but gentle chivvying from the professor to get out of his day clothes and into bed, and listens fuzzily as Snape says, “Come see me tomorrow evening, Potter, so that we can… continue tonight’s work. For now, rest.”

And then Snape is gone, and so is the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RIP in peace to Snape's peace of mind lol can y'all believe he gave this insane child a KNIFE what was he THINKING


	14. Changing Tides

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boy. Okay, first of all, thank you to everyone for bearing with me during this weird mini-hiatus/period of very irregular updates. I'm pleased to announce that I handed in my dissertation a few days ago(!!!) and actually have energy to write and edit again, so I should be getting back to a more regular schedule.
> 
> Second, just so everyone knows, this chapter comes in the middle of a pretty heavy segment of this book, which is really the beginning of a pretty heavy segment of this series. We're leading up to the climax of the book, so don't worry, the tension will start to release soon! But in terms of the series overall, this is really just the beginning of the setup of a lot of pretty intense shit that isn't gonna pay off for a while. I've said before that this is an "it gets worse before it gets better" series, and this part is where that REALLY starts to be true, so just keep that in mind. Feel free to drop me a comment and ask for more info about where the, ah, breathers are--I'm happy to provide.
> 
> Thank you to all new readers joining now, and to everyone who's been keeping up all along and who has been so patient during this dodgy period. Hopefully as of this week (which, uh, I did mean to post on Sunday...) we'll be back to updates every other week until the end of the book, and then my usual inter-book hiatus while I finish Book Four!

Harry wakes to a quiet dorm, lit dimly by thin daylight filtering through the waters of the lake to their window. He rolls over onto his back and scrubs his hands over his face, wondering how he’d gotten to bed—he doesn’t remember… and then he does. The previous night rushes back, memory pouring into him, and he makes a hurt noise without meaning to. It’s so _much_. Too much.

“Harry?” someone says, and he bolts upright in bed, scrabbling for his glasses. Fortunately, whoever had removed them had placed them in easy reach on his bedside table, and with them his wand. He grabs both and barely avoids stabbing himself in the eye with his wand as he shoves his glasses onto his face. The room comes into focus, and he sees Blaise sitting on his own bed across the room, a book in his lap, watching him. “Sorry—didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Uh,” Harry says, and drops his wand into his lap to scrub his face with his hands and then resettle his glasses. Then he has to clear his throat; his voice is extremely hoarse. Not a surprise. “It’s okay.”

“Snape left you a note,” Blaise says, and Harry glances over—there is indeed a note and a potion vial sitting on his writing desk.

“Thanks.” Harry crawls out of bed as gingerly as he can, every part of him feeling stiff and sore, and goes for the note.

 _Potter_ , it says. _I suspect you won’t remember much of our conversation from last night. If you do, never mind—we will speak again when it is safe. Drink this; it will treat the Cruciatus exposure._ Not signed, but it doesn’t have to be. Harry sighs and downs the potion first, sighing again at the relief that it sends spiralling through his body, and then glances over his shoulder at Blaise, who’s still watching him.

“So,” Blaise says casually, when their eyes meet. “Who’s been casting the Cruciatus curse on you, Harry?”

Harry cringes. Of _course_ Blaise had read the note. Honestly, he’s surprised Snape didn’t anticipate that and be more roundabout about it. But then again, maybe he’d been rattled too—a lot had happened last night. “No one.”

Blaise just raises an eyebrow, and then he sighs. “If it was Umbridge, I’m not going to tell anyone. Who would I tell?”

Harry shakes his head and says nothing.

After a moment, Blaise sighs again, and runs a hand back through his thick black hair. He looks… tired. “Fine, if that’s how you want to play it. It’s third block; lunch is in about an hour. Snape said not to wake you, so we didn’t, but Theo skipped Divination in first block and I skipped Transfiguration this block so that we could keep an eye on you. You were… really asleep. Theo thought you were in a coma, but that didn’t make any bloody sense—until I saw that note.”

Harry shrugs. “I’m alright.”

“I doubt that.” Blaise gets up and crosses the room, and then grabs Harry’s shoulders and pulls him into a hard hug. Harry goes tense and stands there awkwardly, not sure what to do, until Blaise lets him go—though not entirely. He keeps a grip on Harry’s upper arms and looks at him squarely. “You know we’re your _friends_ , right Harry? That you can tell us things?”

Harry closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to think about what’s probably showing on his face right now. His whole chest is a tight knot of misery, and his shields are gone. He’s still so bloody tired. “I know,” he whispers. “It’s just… not worth talking about.”

“I don’t agree,” Blaise says, “but if you’re determined not to give her any more of your time and thought than she already claims, I guess I can respect that. Just don’t forget that people give a shit about you, Potter, got it?”

That startles a smile out of Harry, and he opens his eyes again, looks up into his friend’s face. Blaise’s features are as open as Harry has ever seen them, his dark eyes wide and clear and earnest. He almost _never_ lets down the mask of sarcasm and exasperation like this, and it’s all Harry can do to reach out in return and clasp Blaise’s arm. “Thanks, Blaise.”

“Just… try not to die, okay?”

“I’ll try.”

Blaise hugs him again, then lets go entirely. “Now get dressed, you hopeless prat. There’s something else I need to tell you, but you’re going to hate it, so I think you’d better put yourself together first.”

“Oh, Merlin,” Harry mutters. “What now?” But Blaise just shakes his head and shoos Harry toward the bathroom, and he goes—as much as he doesn’t want to deal with whatever’s gone on while he was indisposed, he also desperately wants to wash. He feels itchy from sweat, and still has traces of dried blood in the lines of his palms, though it seems like Snape at least gave him a once-over with a cleaning charm. And washing means clean clothes which means maybe he can drag Blaise to the kitchens—lunch is in an hour, but Harry is _starving_ , and if he doesn’t have to wait to eat he’s not going to.

The hot water feels incredible, and Harry lingers in the shower a bit longer than he usually would, but after a minute of standing under the spray with his eyes closed he remembers that Blaise is waiting and, with a resigned sigh, finishes washing and steps out. A flick of his wand to cast a drying charm—probably the best thing he’s learned in third year so far—and he slides into clean clothes before heading back out into the dorm. Blaise is back on his bed with his book again, but closes it and waves Harry over when he sees him.

It’s rare that Harry gets invited to come sit on Blaise’s bed—that’s usually a privilege reserved for Theo. It only happens when they’re talking about something serious, like politics, and Harry can feel the tension settling in his shoulders as he crosses the room. He crawls up onto the bed and settles cross-legged across from Blaise, and meets his solemn gaze.

“Alright,” Harry says, after a breath of silence. “Lay it on me, I suppose.”

Blaise quirks a smile. “I don’t know what you heard or saw last night, or if what happened to you is related, but—well, I’m not going to dance around. Umbridge has managed to get Dumbledore removed from the castle. She’s taken over as Headmistress.”

“Fuck,” Harry says matter-of-factly, and Blaise snorts loudly, then covers his mouth as if to hide the ungraceful noise. “Okay. I assume she announced it at breakfast? Did she give a reason?”

“Something about sedition, Dumbledore trying to rise against the Ministry, I don’t know,” Blaise says. “Honestly, I didn’t listen that closely—it was sure to be piffle, just like everything else she says.”

Harry sits back on his hands and tips his head back to stare up at the dark green canopy of Blaise’s bed. “Right,” he says. “Well, that’s rubbish.”

“That’s about right,” Blaise sighs. “She also said she’d formed an Inquisitorial Squad—a squad of toadies for the toad. Malfoy and his gang, and some of the older students too, to keep an eye on everyone. She's restricted the post entirely, nothing in and nothing out without being read and censored. And a large group of people ended up in what she called ‘indefinite detention’.”

“Oh, hell,” Harry says, and leans forward again. “Let me guess: my group of Gryffindor idiots?”

Blaise nods. “And others. Not many Slytherins—Farley and Higgs though, and Greengrass the younger.”

Harry considers what he knows, and then asks, “Cedric Diggory?”

“Him too.” Blaise shoots him a curious look. “I’m not going to ask.”

“I wasn’t part of it,” Harry says, “but I know a bit about what they’ve been up to.”

“Can’t have been anything bad if Umbridge didn’t like it.”

“No kidding.”

Their eyes meet, there’s a beat, and then both of them crack up a little, their laughter halfway hysterical. It doesn’t make sense, nothing that either of them said was funny, but… Merlin, Harry feels like it’s laugh or cry right now, and he’s determined to laugh. If Sirius has taught him anything, it’s that.

Once they both get their breath back and Blaise has wiped the gathered tears from his eyes, he says, “God, how do these things keep _happening_ to us?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Harry says, shaking his head. “I think I’m cursed.”

“Well, it can’t _just_ be you—everyone else keeps getting caught up too.” He reaches forward and pats Harry’s knee. “Really, it’s just the Defence position curse, but it’s three times as bad because the rest of the world’s going to hell too.”

“That’s probably right,” Harry admits. Each individual problem is bad, of course, but really it’s the _combination_ that’s been terrible—and every bad thing that happens seems to feed everything else. “What now, d’you think?”

Blaise shrugs. “No idea, mate. But we’ll be okay. Now come on—let’s get to the Great Hall. You’ve got to be starving.”

“Bugger the Great Hall,” Harry says. “I’ll show you the kitchens.”

Blaise looks at him wide-eyed, and Harry just grins in return and hops off the bed to lead the way out of the dorm. The entrance to the Slytherin common room isn’t so far from the kitchens, really, though not as close as the Hufflepuff common room, and it only takes a few minutes to walk there. When they reach the portrait, Harry tickles the pear and then, with a flourish worthy of the twins, bows Blaise into the room, making him laugh.

“How’d you even find this place?” Blaise asks, looking around once he’s inside. Harry joins him, staring around at the bustle of house elves cooking and ferrying dishes about and doing laundry and mending over in one corner.

“I’ve never actually been before,” Harry admits. “But Sirius and Remus found it when they were in school and told me about it.” Not _strictly_ true, because he’d actually learned about it from the Map, but it was their schoolboy impressions who’d taught him the trick with the pear.

“That’s excellent,” Blaise says, trotting over to a long picnic-type table set to one side of the room and seating himself on the bench; he sweeps his robes out from under him before he sits so that they fall properly, as he always does, and Harry resists rolling his eyes at the care he takes even when no one who cares is here to see him. “Can we just ask for food?”

“Yes, yes!” comes a high, thready voice from near Harry’s knee, and he looks down to see a house elf has come up to him. “I is Flipsy. What would young masters of Slytherin House like to eat?”

Harry takes a seat across from Blaise and shrugs. “Whatever is for lunch, I s’pose. I’m just _really_ hungry—I missed breakfast, you see, and I’d like something to tide me over until lunch.”

“Oh dear!” cries Flipsy. “No good, young master, no good at all. Flipsy will be fetching you some sandwiches, for tiding you over, yes. And you, young master?” She looks over at Blaise.

Blaise shrugs. “I’ll eat lunch in another half-hour with everyone else. Though if there’s a slice of coffee cake to be had, I certainly won’t argue.”

Flipsy nods eagerly, her long ears flapping, and vanishes into the bustle. It feels like only seconds later that she’s back with a platter, balanced on a hand that seems too spindly to support the weight—but she doesn’t seem troubled at all as she snaps her fingers and the contents of the platters lay themselves out before Harry and Blaise. A plate with a cheese sandwich and a glass of pumpkin juice for Harry, and a smaller plate with a square of cake for Blaise, as well as a pot of tea for them to share.

“Thank you, Flipsy,” Harry says sincerely, and she beams.

“Flipsy is always happy to be helping young masters and mistresses!” she says. “We is mostly getting to help the House of Hufflepuff, so we is glad that the House of Slytherin is being helped too.”

Harry and Blaise exchange a look, and Harry grins a little. “I imagine they’ve been eating more meals down here lately,” he says.

“Oh yes,” Flipsy says, nodding. She looks at Blaise, then at Harry, and then a sly smile settles on her face. “There is no school rules against eating in the kitchens, young masters.”

“No indeed,” Blaise murmurs thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t have thought the ‘Puffs capable of that sort of… cleverness.”

“They’re capable of more than you’d think,” Harry says, thinking back to his sideways conversation with Cedric about the Defence club and his under-the-table organization of the Quidditch games.

“Quite,” Blaise says and takes a decisive bite of cake. He’s got a thoughtful look on his face, and Harry leaves him to it and applies himself to his sandwich instead. If he’s going to face a school now fully under Umbridge’s control, he’s going to do it fortified.

* * *

It’s not exactly a good time, living in Hogwarts under Umbridge’s rule. She continues to supervise mass detentions, now held every night. No one else manages to earn ‘indefinite detention’ right away, but Harry almost never sees Neville, Hermione, Ron, or Gemma any more, because all four of them are there from an hour after dinner until curfew every single night except Sundays, and it leaves them all scrambling for time to study. Gemma looks especially stressed, with her NEWTs looming, and Hermione as well with all her extra subjects—she’d dropped Divination and switched to self-study for Muggle Studies, but that still left her with a lot of class hours and a lot of essays to write. Harry studies with them in solidarity in the library as often as he can, and doesn’t talk with them much; he doesn’t want to distract them or make anything worse.

At least the mass detentions don’t involve blood quills—Umbridge doesn’t have enough, so she sticks to writing regular lines, or even just having them all sit in silence, trapped with their thoughts. Harry earns two of those detentions in the first week back, mostly because, while he’s keeping his head down, Malfoy—now a member of the Inquisitorial Squad—is watching him like a hawk. It’s unpleasant, but not even a return to the blood quill would stand up against Voldemort’s Cruciatus.

He does, at least, manage to learn what caused all the trouble for his friends. He manages to grab Hussain, not in indefinite detention, and ask her; she has the whole story. The night of the 1st, Malfoy had gotten a bee in his bonnet about Harry being missing and had gone out looking for him. It was sheer bad luck that he’d been stalking along the seventh floor corridor at the same time as one of their defence club meetings had been getting out. Cedric, who’d been stepping out of the usually-hidden door to what Hussain called the Come and Go Room, had immediately retreated inside to warn those inside that Draco was running to snitch. There hadn’t been enough time to get everyone out clean—a few had been caught on their way back toward their dorms, and there had been people in the room still, too.

The leaders of the club had agreed to stay and take the fall, and buy time for the younger students to get clear. In her soft voice, Hussain explains that Cedric, Weasley-Most-Senior, and Clearwater, who apparently with Gemma formed the core leaders, had _tried_ to make Neville, Hermione, and Ron leave, but had run up against the Gryffindor stubbornness that Harry knows well.

“No surprise,” Harry murmurs, when he hears that. “Those three have an overdeveloped sense of justice.”

“Typical,” Hussain says, shaking her head, but finishes the story.

Those that had been caught had been dragged by Umbridge and a few students recruited as her goons at wandpoint to the Headmaster’s office. There, Umbridge had accused him of undermining her and training students as soldiers to wage war against the Ministry. That was, of course, patently ridiculous, but she’d summoned Aurors to arrest Dumbledore.

“I only have this from Gemma,” Hussain says then. “So I can’t be sure exactly the… feeling in the room. But he seemed to believe that getting arrested would not go well for him, even on clearly false charges. Knowing the state of the Ministry and the Wizengamot right now, he might even have been right. Gemma said that he summoned his phoenix, delivered some sort of cryptic encouragement to the students present—other than Umbridge’s lot, of course—and vanished in a phoenix-fire transport.”

"That's..." Harry searches for a word, settles on, "dramatic."

"Yes," Hussain sighs. "And now we are here." She gestures around them subtly, at the subdued people studying in the Slytherin common room. People have retreated out of the halls, for the most part, with no need for Umbridge to restrict movements even further, though Harry is still convinced that that's coming.

"Yeah," Harry says, and runs a hand over his hair. It's long enough now that he could probably try tying it back into a small tail, but he doesn't have anything appropriate; at least the length has, as Sirius predicted, tamed its wildness a bit. "Now we're here."

It isn't any worse than the Dursleys. Still, the days drag their feet in passing, time feeling sludge-like and empty without much at all to fill it. Everything that could have kept Harry busy has suddenly fallen away: the diary task is done, and most of his friends are trapped in detentions. He can't risk getting in much more trouble, because he doesn't doubt that Umbridge would just expel him. So he keeps his head down, studies, plays cards with Theo and Blaise and Millicent, and practices his Occlumency. He calls Sirius every couple of nights—Sirius knows about the mail embargo, of course, and is furious, but the Wizengamot session at which he can try to force legislation to end it isn’t until the end of the month. So the regular calls keep him calm, and Harry does a decent job of pretending that he’s completely fine, just frustrated. Which is almost true, and that’s true enough. And in the rest of his time, he reads everything he can get his hands on. For classes, of course, but also every Defence text he can find in the library (those that Umbridge hasn't already ferreted out and had moved to the Restricted section) and everything on Ancient Runes, just because those are interesting. Time in the library often results in his being joined by Luna, who sits quietly and reads with him, and when she leaves always leaves behind a book, a silent recommendation—they're always fascinating picks, full of things he'd never have thought to look up for himself. Mostly Care of Magical Creatures, some contain spells that he can easily imagine repurposing for duelling, or esoteric magical theory texts, and even once a book on divination using runes that leads to him sitting in bed, tracing the rune _sowilo_ on the page—the same shape as the scar on Neville's forehead—and thinking about the definition of success.

Snape doesn't say anything to Harry. In fact, after the 1st he seems happy to go right back to ignoring him like he had in first year. What that means, Harry isn’t sure, and he unfortunately has too much time to think about it. Maybe it’s about the Parseltongue, maybe it’s that Snape is actually for the Light and has decided Harry is actually completely on board with being Voldemort’s pet, maybe it’s that Snape is actually for the Dark and he’s seen through Harry’s facade in front of the Death Eater inner circle somehow, maybe he’s just offended by something Harry had said no matter _what_ side he’s on. Maybe none of this matters and Harry doesn’t have a hope in hell of surviving this no matter what Snape thinks or does, so Snape is trying to distance himself now so that he doesn’t get caught in the crossfire when Harry gets caught. He tries not to dwell on that last possibility too much.

He tries not to dwell on anything too much. It’s not easy, but he manages, and somehow the days creep past. The full moon arrives and with it the Wizengamot meeting; Harry isn’t hoping for much, and sure enough over the mirror that night Sirius is practically spitting fire over the way Fudge had blocked his attempts to get the mail embargo at Hogwarts lifted. He’d claimed it was to prevent “the youth” from stirring up any conflict and hysteria, and from “certain adults” from spreading any further anti-Ministry propaganda during this time when it was just _oh_ so very important that the government maintain strict control. Bullshit, is what Sirius calls it, and Harry just nods in tired agreement. Fudge is just scrambling to keep his grip on the magical world, because he knows that no one will trust him to run a war. This only proves why, is Harry’s opinion, but it is what it is: for now, he’s got the numbers in the Wizengamot, especially with the Dark Houses working actively against Sirius and his bloc as well.

“I’m sorry,” Sirius says, at the end of the call. “I guess you’ll be stuck there for the holidays, huh? Or do you think she’ll let up and let everyone go home?”

Harry snorts. “If she lets us go, half won’t come back,” he says. “And she knows it. So, no, I’ll bet I’ll be stuck here.”

Sirius purses his lips, but nods. “More or less what I expected,” he sighs. “Well, keep me updated, pup. And call if you need anything.”

“‘Course,” Harry says. “Love you, Sirius.”

“Love you too, Harry. Sleep well.”

“Give Remus my love, tell him I hope he has a good moon?”

“Of course.” Sirius smiles, a little more drawn than his usual broad grin, but still real, still happy. “Good night.”

“Night.” The mirror blanks, and Harry crawls out of the curtains around his bed to tuck it away back into his trunk.

“News from the Wizengamot?” Theo asks, from his bed. Harry always draws his curtains for some privacy while he talks to Sirius, but Blaise and Theo know about the calls by now; Blaise looks up from his book, where he’s sitting on his own bed, reading.

“Like we expected,” Harry says.

Theo groans. “I mean, not that I’d really hoped for better, but this is terrible.”

“Something’s got to give,” Harry agrees. “I’m kind of just hoping it’ll be her and not us.”

Blaise tilts his head from side to side. “Even odds,” he says. “She’s stubborn, but she’s also expending more time and more resources keeping everyone under control than we are in waiting her out.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, and realizes he’s wringing his hands, running the fingertips of his right hand over the silvery scars on the back of his left. “Well, we’ll see. Whatever happens, I’m hoping I don’t get caught up in it.”

“You’ve got terrible luck,” Theo points out, sounding amused, and Harry shoots him a glare poisonous enough that he throws up his hands. “You know I’m right!”

“Maybe,” Harry says grudgingly. “But this year I’m keeping my head down. Trying, anyway.”

“You’re doing alright,” Blaise says, grinning a little, a flash of white teeth against his dark skin. “Better than you were at the start of the year.”

Harry shrugs. “Learning to pick my battles, I guess.” Or that sometimes part of battle is biding your time, maybe. He’s given up on trying to get Umbridge to shut up entirely and he’s had to let the Voldemort thing go or he’d be bleeding every night, but he’s never going to stop defending the honour of his House—which is what’s still earning him the occasional detention. She really, _really_ has a bone to pick with Sirius. Whatever. He knows he’s right and she’ll know too, when the time comes.

“Good for you,” Blaise says, only a little patronizing, and goes back to his book. Harry just rolls his eyes and clambers back up onto his bed, then flops down on his back and lays his hands across his belly, fingers laced. He falls quickly into meditation, checking his shields, and then falls into sleep.

Sure enough, the very next morning at breakfast, the first day of the break and the day some of the younger students still had hope that they might be boarding the Express to go home, the expected announcement comes: no one will be permitted to leave the castle for the break without explicit permission from the Headmistress. No one had known that they had to seek it, so no one has it except a few members of the Inquisitorial Squad—including Draco Malfoy, who’s absent from the table along with a few others. At least with him gone, the follow up announcement is a little easier to bear: all students will be confined to their common rooms for the duration of the break unless issued a pass in writing from a professor for a specific allotment of hours to be spent in the library. No time outside in the fresh spring air; no time to be spent in the halls, socializing.

Fine, Harry thinks, a spark of malicious mischief lighting in his gut. But he’s got the cloak, which means that no one needs to know that he’s gone, and he knows a few good hexes. Let’s see how much Umbridge enjoys her break with a living poltergeist following her around.

It’s actually one of the more enjoyable weeks that Harry can remember, even aside from the opportunity to catch Umbridge with a Tripping Jinx several times. Classes and detentions are _both_ suspended, and Harry takes shameless advantage to hunt down his friends whenever possible during the small overlaps in their library blocks—mostly Hermione, because she spends the most time there, getting passes from all of the teachers for several hours each day. For the first time in his memory, Madame Pince turns a deaf ear to people whispering in the library, only coming to hush them when Umbridge is patrolling.

“This is just awful,” Hermione says, when Harry sits down next to her on Wednesday morning at a table in the Arithmancy section. They both have homework spread out in front of them, but it’s already finished. “ _She’s_ awful.”

Harry nods. “It’s not going to last,” he says with quiet conviction. “She’s the Defence professor, after all; she’ll be gone at the end of the year, if not sooner.”

“I mean, this can’t be legal!” Hermione cries, and then winces when Madame Pince appears around the corner of a bookshelf to glare. “Sorry,” she whispers. There are limits to the librarian’s tolerance, after all. Then she turns back to Harry and continues, more quietly, “Honestly, though. I’ve been doing some reading—it’s very irregular for the Ministry to interfere to this degree in the running of Hogwarts.”

Harry nods; he’s done some of the same research, seen the same things. Hogwarts predates the Ministry of Magic, and even the Statute of Secrecy, by quite a lot. It’s always been its own institution, a pillar of British magical society, self-governed and free of most political interference. “Not much to be done about it, though,” he replies, equally quiet. “The Ministry holds a significant number of Wizengamot seats at the moment, so Sirius can’t legislate her gone, and the Hogwarts Board of Governors is controlled by, uh,” _Death Eaters_ , but he can’t say that, “people who’ve never been much of a fan of Dumbledore. So.”

Hermione makes a disgusted noise. “Our government is _terrible_ ,” she says. “When you become Lord Black and Neville becomes Lord Longbottom, I expect you two’ll do _something_ to fix it.”

“Well, we’ll try,” Harry says, because it’s not like Sirius hasn’t tried too and he hasn’t really gotten anywhere. But maybe with Lord Malfoy and his little cabal hopefully done away with at the end of the war they might be able to gain some ground. “For now, we just have to deal with it.”

“Ugh.” Hermione turns a page aggressively. “I can’t wait until she gets what’s coming to her. Can you imagine needing a _pass_ to _study_! This is a _school_!”

Harry tries not to laugh. Hermione and her priorities, as always; she’s truly a universal constant. “Yeah,” he agrees instead, and then because Hermione’s gotten caught on some detail in the book, he bends his head to his own homework for a while.

The week wears on, Easter weekend arrives, and Harry spends Sunday wishing for the sky. He feels jittery and unsettled, unable to get memories of last year’s Easter—fire and screams, heat, pain, Voldemort’s pale fingers and Crouch’s narrow face—out of his head, and he can tell that Blaise and Theo notice; it would be hard for them not to, more-or-less confined to their dorm as they all are. Finally, after dinner, Harry slips away under the Cloak to roam for a little while, dodging the professors on patrol and going to lurk in the high hallways of the seventh floor, climbing up the Astronomy Tower, and then making his way back to the dungeons well past midnight. From the looks Blaise and Theo give him when he comes into the dorm, his presence has been missed, but they must see some look on his face because neither says anything about it. Or maybe they’re just practicing their usual discretion; hard to tell. Harry doesn’t speak to either of them, ignores their quiet conversation, and goes to bed early. He considers calling Sirius, even finds when he touches the mirror where it’s tucked under his pillow that it’s warm in the way it gets when he’s missed a call, but… he doesn’t want to talk to anyone right now.

He wakes up sometime in the small hours of the morning shaking, his face turned into his pillow and the fabric wet from tears. He doesn’t remember the dream, which is a small mercy, but he can’t stop trembling, so he shoves his curtains aside—too forcefully. Blaise, tucked up in his own bed, stirs and mumbles a sleepy, “Whatsit?”

“Nothing,” Harry whispers back, as calmly as he can. “Go back to sleep.”

“Mm.”

Harry waits a moment, but it seems like Blaise has drifted off again, so he shoves his feet into his slippers, grabs his normal cloak, and goes down to sit in front of the dying fire in the common room, staring at the low orange embers.

 _“Restless night, Speaker?”_ the portrait above the mantelpiece hisses to him when he’s been sitting for a while. “ _It’s past bedtime for baby snakes.”_

 _“Had a bad dream,”_ Harry replies shortly.

“ _Was it about a mongoose?”_ the snake says.

Harry glances up, bemused. “ _A what?”_

 _“A mean furry thing.”_ The snake coils tighter around its painted branch. “ _They eat snakes.”_

 _“You’re a portrait,”_ Harry points out. “ _I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”_

 _“Maybe you do, though,”_ the snake replies. “ _You should go ask Adhafera to eat the mongoose. She’s big enough.”_

 _“... Right.”_ Not a terrible idea, actually—maybe tomorrow, or later today as it were, Harry _will_ go visit the basilisk. “ _Thanks. I feel a bit better now_.”

“ _Go back to bed, baby Speaker_ ,” the snake says. “ _I will watch the door and make sure no mongeese come in._ ”

“ _Okay.”_ He smiles up at the portrait. “ _Good night.”_

The snake just hisses at him wordlessly, and Harry grins and goes.

The next day, however, Harry has no chance to slip away to visit Adhafera. There are no classes today, so everyone’s around, a good two dozen students sitting on the couches or playing cards or studying, and he’d surely be noticed if he tried to leave. Harry thinks again a few times during the morning about slipping away to return Sirius’s call from last night, but decides to spend some time with his friends, instead. They’re going to get suspicious if he keeps isolating himself, he knows—and yesterday he really couldn’t help it. So he talks Quidditch with Theo and Millicent, does a little homework, and generally tries to act normal. The few students who’d gone home arrive back in the afternoon, Malfoy, his two lackeys, and Warrington all returning to the common room a few hours after lunch, and Harry and Blaise are in the middle of a game of Exploding Snap when they arrive. They exchange a mutual eye-roll at Malfoy strutting in like a peacock and return to playing, unbothered, but only a few minutes after the stir of arrival there’s another stir, people in one corner of the room speaking in agitated tones. Not loud enough that Harry can hear the words, but he notices, looks up, and sees that it’s the group where Warrington had gone to sit down with a few other older students, mostly Quidditch players: Higgs, Montague, Bole, Levidis, and Derrick. Harry pauses in the middle of his turn to watch as Higgs gets up with something—a roll of paper, looks like—clutched in his fist and a furious look on his face. He stomps over to where Gemma and Hussain have their heads bent close over a book and slams the paper down in front of them, and says, nearly shouts really, “Look at this!”

Gemma and Hussain both look startled, and around the common room heads turn in that direction; Harry’s would have too if he hadn’t already been watching, his attention caught by the tension in the original group of six. Quickly, Gemma unrolls the paper, reads, and then her face twists as well. “Who brought this in?” she asks.

“Me.” Warrington stands up, comes over to them. He’s been distant from the rest of that group lately, Harry knows, despite their being his closest friends. His family… well, he’s had to play it very safe with Umbridge, and that means keeping away from his friends. It’s not like Harry doesn’t get it. “I know it was against the rules, but there are some things even _I_ won’t lower myself to. I think Davis—the older one—brought a copy in for Ravenclaw, too, and I’m going to make sure one gets to Gryffindor and Hufflepuff.”

Gemma nods and picks up the paper—and it _is_ a paper, a newspaper. A copy of the Daily Prophet, Harry assumes.

“Hey!” comes a whiny voice from across the room. Malfoy, of course. “That’s contraband, Farley. Give it over, and we’ll be going to see the Headmistress immediately. And _you’re_ coming with us, _traitor_.” The last is directed at Warrington, who sneers.

“Shut the hell up, Malfoy,” Gemma says, so blunt that Malfoy actually _does_. Harry doesn’t bother to stifle his snort, and he exchanges an amused look with Blaise. She raises her voice further and calls, “Listen up!”

As the remaining people in the room not paying attention look up at her, she shakes out the paper and begins to read in a stentorian voice. “Attack on the Alley!” she declares. “Yesterday at noon, Diagon Alley was rocked by a vicious attack by the extremist faction known as the ‘Death Eaters,’ identified by several veterans of the first Wizarding War against Voldemort who were on scene. Multiple black-cloaked combatants Apparated into the middle of Diagon Alley, bustling at the time with people doing their Sunday afternoon shopping, and began firing curses at will into the crowd. According to witnesses, they aimed primarily for bystanders in muggle-style clothing, as well as for the windows and displays of shops known to be owned or frequented by halfbloods or muggleborns.

“Several wixen were killed and many more were injured, particularly in the first moments of the attack before anyone could respond, including prominent public figure Amelia Bones, who according to sources within St. Mungo’s Hospital is still in treatment for severe spell damage, and former Hogwarts Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, who arrived on scene shortly before Aurors responded to attempt to quell the attack; his status is unknown. Along with former Headmaster Dumbledore, several other members of the public either attempted to assist or arrived on scene to defend the Alley, including former Hit Wizard Lord Sirius Orion Black and retired Auror Alastor Moody. Aurors were also dispatched to the scene, arriving some ten minutes after the attack began. Witnesses have reported that upon the arrival of the Aurors, one of the Death Eaters declared from the steps of Gringotts bank that ‘The Dark Lord Voldemort has returned! Bow to his might or be broken!’ and proceeded to cast an unknown charm which conjured the known terrorist symbol known as the Morsmordre in the air above the Alley. The Death Eaters then Apparated out, retrieving all injured or incapacitated members of their force except one, before the Aurors could erect anti-Apparition wards. The remaining Death Eater, who was stunned by Lord Black, has been identified by the Aurors as one Christoph Flint, a close cousin to Lord Nicodemus Flint. Lord Flint could not be reached for comment. See page 4 for more details, including a list of public casualties.”

Gemma pauses in her reading and looks up from the paper at the faces all around the common room. Harry’s not sure what his own expression looks like, but if it’s at all like everyone else, it’s grim. “Well,” he says, loudly. “That puts paid to that, doesn’t it.”

“Th-they must have been wrong!” Malfoy shouts loudly. “Or—“

“Didn’t you hear Farley, Malfoy?” Higgs says savagely. “Shut the _hell_ up, or I’ll shut you up.”

“What’s _your_ problem, Higgs?” someone says on the other side of the room.

Higgs stabs a finger at the paper. “One of my uncles was killed,” he says, and that puts a hard stop to the whispers beginning to gather in the room. “A lot of the victims were muggleborns or halfbloods, sure, but _not all of them_.” Then he whirls around and storms out of the room, headed for the dorms.

There’s a long, heavy silence in the common room, as people stare down at their hands or their laps, or look at one another. Harry studies the room; a first-year girl is crying, silently, while an older girl shifts to wrap an arm around her shoulders. She’s got the right idea, he thinks, but there are no tears inside him. All he’s got is anger.

“What do we do?” someone says, finally. Harry doesn’t recognize the voice. There are a lot of Slytherins in the room, people on both sides of the political divide from every year, and he’s never known all of them—only the ones he thought were important.

Gemma is Head Girl, and people look to her. Her face is calm, impassive, but Harry knows her well enough to see the tension in her as she speaks. “We keep our heads down,” she says. “I know that there are dissenting opinions in this room, but being who we are, we’re going to be painted all with the same brush. I won’t see anyone get hurt on account of someone else’s opinion, is that clear? So every single one of you, you can argue in private all you want, but now it’s more important than ever to heed Professor Snape’s warnings and edicts about the unity of Slytherin House. _All_ of us are going to play this neutral until the time comes, for the _safety_ of us all. And when the time does come, if you do decide that your opinion is more important than your skin, know that you might be on your own.”

More than one way to read that statement, Harry thinks—but then, he knows what side of things Gemma falls on. For her, her dedication to the fight against Voldemort is always going to be more important than her skin. For others, it’ll be their dedication _to_ Voldemort, and so be it, if it goes that way. For the rest… well, maybe they’ll be okay. If they’re lucky. For Harry, _luck_ has never had anything to do with it.


	15. The Rise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the #1 problem with quarantine is that time is 100% fake, woops
> 
> i no longer know which day of the week is sunday
> 
> HOWEVER i wanted to say thank you all for the comments!!! i've gotten some really lovely ones and though i haven't had the jam to reply to many recently, i read and appreciate all of them <3

Not that it was ever Neville’s favourite holiday, but he’s really coming to hate Easter. Before Voldemort’s resurrection, he didn’t much care about it, but this year the day was an unfortunate anniversary, made doubly unfortunate by their confinement to common rooms and dorms. Being stuck inside the dorm room, sitting on his bed and lacing and unlacing his fingers over and over again, was at least better than doing the same in the common room, where all he could imagine was the fire flaring green and Barty Crouch Junior stepping through, laughing that terrible laugh. But the anxiety was present either way, clawing its way up into his throat and lodging there, trapping all his words underneath until even Ron gave up on trying to coax him into talking and left him alone to stew.

And then on Monday, just as Neville had thought they were past the worst of it, the news arrived: an attack on Diagon Alley. The first open volley of the war, on Easter of course, because Voldemort is nothing if not theatrical. It sends everyone in Gryffindor House into a spin, people chattering and dashing about to check up on their friends, some people breaking down upon finding the name of someone they know on the casualty list—nearly a hundred wixen were killed or injured, even though the skirmish was brief, and the magical world is small. Everyone knows everyone else. Neville doesn’t bother to check; he’s sure he’ll recognize some name or other, and he’s sure that if his gran were hurt someone would tell him, but otherwise he can’t bring himself to know for sure. It’s just… too much.

On Tuesday morning, the first day back to class after the Easter hols, Umbridge gets up at the breakfast table and says, “Hem hem!”

Everyone in the Hall—no Hufflepuffs, of course, because they’ve been absent from meals for weeks—falls quiet with relative speed. It’s best, they’ve all learned, to get it over with. Otherwise they just have to listen to her clear her throat again and again until there’s silence, and that’s more annoying than it’s worth.

“Thank you, children,” she says, once it’s quiet and everyone is looking up at the head table expectantly. It’s still jarring to see Her Pinkness sitting in Dumbledore’s high-backed chair. “I am dismayed to have to announce a further restriction upon the school for everyone’s safety and protection! It seems to me that terrible contraband, _dangerous_ material, has made its way within the sheltering walls of this school. Some _former_ members of the Inquisitorial Squad were responsible for sneaking this contraband into the school, and in order to prevent further such behaviour there will henceforth be no passage in or out of the castle either of persons or objects. The Owlery is now closed. No mail of any sort may be sent or received; you may appeal to myself, your Headmistress, if you wish for a pass to attend to your owl personally. Otherwise, they will come under the care of Mr. Filch. Second, due to the unfortunate rise in terrorism outside of the school, all passage of students will be restricted. Students headed to outdoor classes will be chaperoned by their professors between the front doors and the learning spaces, and counted in and out. As well, I will be conducting random searches of dorms and common rooms, to ensure that there is no further contraband present! Please remember, this is all for your safety and for the best. That is all. Thank you.”

There’s no outcry. Neville looks across the table at Hermione, whose brow is furrowed, and then over at Ron, next to him, who has an equally stormy look on his face. But none of them say anything. What would be the point? And a similar thought must be going through the heads of most of the students, because there are only whispers as people turn to their breakfasts, shovelling food into their mouths quickly so that everyone can escape the Hall. There’s not much else to be done, not here and now, and Neville doesn’t know what he would do any other time or place, either. Their last attempt at resistance had ended in disaster, and what could they do about these new edicts, anyway? The school is locked down. They’re trapped.

The same itching feeling under his skin that had come to live there during the confinement on Easter remains all day, until finally they’re back at the common room after classes. Without needing to talk about it, Neville and Ron and Hermione sit down together on the couch they’ve claimed as theirs and put their heads together. They have an hour, nominally to do homework, before they’re required to report for their nightly detention.

“This is shite,” Ron says immediately. Hermione scowls, but she doesn’t argue with his phrasing. “We’ve got to do something.”

“Last time we tried to do something it blew up in our faces,” Neville points out.

“That doesn’t mean it was a bad idea,” Hermione says, stubborn. “Ron’s right, we’ve got to do _something_. But what?”

At that, the couch jostles as two someones leap over the back of the couch and land on either side of their small huddled group. There’s not nearly enough space on the couch for five, even when two of the five are as lanky as the Weasley twins, who are the newcomers, and they all end up rather squished together. “Plotting—“ says the one on the left, probably Fred.

“—are we?” finishes the other, who, if the other is probably-Fred must be probably-George.

“Go away,” says Ron.

“No,” says Fred.

“Don’t think we will,” says George. “Fill us in.”

Neville sighs, because there’s really not going to be any getting rid of them. “We’re just… trying to figure out what to do now.”

“Is that the inclusive _we_ —“

“—or the exclusive _we_?”

Neville glances at Ron, who looks equally confused about what they mean. Hermione, fortunately, gets it. “The inclusive, I suppose,” she says. “It’s going to have to be _all_ of us against _her_ , isn’t it?”

“Quite right,” says George, and Fred nods along. “First things first: better hide all of our _contraband_ , isn’t that right?”

“We’ve got plenty of hidey holes,” Fred adds. “So we can handle that.”

The concrete starting place seems to relax Hermione, enough that a moment later she pulls a scrap of parchment and a quill out of _nowhere_ , apparently—really, Neville just thinks she’s sewn extra pockets into her school robes—and starts making notes. “Right,” she says. “Contraband, of course. And… well, we still have the DA galleons even if we haven’t been using them. Maybe we could use those to pass messages?”

“Good idea,” Neville says. “D’you think other Houses will have any ideas about ways to hide stuff Umbridge would try to confiscate?”

“Probably,” Hermione mutters, and makes another note.

Fred and George reach their arms around the back of the couch, linking their hands so that between them they’re swishing all of Neville, Ron, and Hermione into a weird sideways group hug. “We’re so very proud—“

“—of our seditious little friends!” They make no attempt to be quiet, of course, and there’s laughter from a few others in the common room. And then, a moment later, some of those drift over too: the young and enthusiastic crowd first, consisting of Dean and Seamus and Ginny and Colin Creevey, and then some older students too, like Alessandra Hopkirk, Michael Turner and Thom Marshall. The conversation about what can be done to subvert these new restrictions that Umbridge has laid down spreads out from there until almost everyone in the room is involved. No illusions of loyalty to Umbridge or the Ministry any more, Neville thinks, watching. Before… before, some had been willing to let the benefit of the doubt stretch to its limits for her, but people are _dying_ and Umbridge has lied about the cause. She’s trying to prevent them from knowing anything—and what if the attacks continue? What if it’s someone’s parent next, or their sibling? No, the time for doubt is over; everyone knows the score now. It’s just a question of what to _do._

By the time they have to go to detention, there are about a thousand ideas floating around, some better than others. People are still talking as Hermione and Ron and Neville slip out of the common room and head for the Great Hall, joined a moment later by Percy. He never speaks to them on the way down to the Hall, as if by ignoring them he’ll also be able to ignore that he’s stuck in the first detentions he’s ever earned. Ron thinks it’s stupid and has complained loudly a few times already about how Percy should be _proud_ to have earned this particular detention, but Neville thinks he should be allowed his hangups. Whatever makes it easier; he showed up to help with the DA when it was really important, and that’s what matters.

When they arrive in the Great Hall for the mass detention, however, it’s immediately obvious that something is off. There are individual tables set up as always, about twenty of them, but the room is half-empty. Some of the desks are occupied with unfamiliar faces—Cassius Warrington and Rikard Davis, the former Inquisitorial Squad members who’d brought in copies of the _Prophet_ , according to Penelope—but the half-dozen desks usually filled by Hufflepuffs are empty except for a blank sheet of paper and a plain self-inking quill. Cedric and Susan Bones and Lesedi Mahao, who’d been caught with the DA on that first night, are absent, and so is Ernie MacMillan, Leanne Winters, and little Annie Zhou, who’d kicked Goyle in the shin three weeks ago for trying to cast a Stinging Hex on another first year. The Hufflepuffs have the common room closest to the Hall and are usually the first to arrive, but tonight they’re all missing—and by the look on Umbridge’s face, not because of anything she’s done.

Neville settles into his usual desk near the back of the room and rearranges the parchment on it to his liking, and waits for Umbridge to tell them what sentence they’ll be writing until they feel like their hands are about to fall off _this_ time, but she in turn seems to be waiting for the Hufflepuffs. Ten minutes after the usual start time for the mass detentions, everyone else has arrived and settled in, but no ‘Puffs—they’re completely missing, and Umbridge’s face is so red that it looks like she’s about to explode or catch fire. Neville entertains himself with that image, then snaps his attention back to her when she finally clears her throat and says through gritted teeth, “Children, tonight you will be writing _I must not delay in reporting for detention._ Now, I am going to go retrieve your classmates, and if there is even a _hint_ that anyone has done anything other than write your lines, you will all be staying an extra two hours tonight. _Am I clear_?”

“Crystal, ma’am,” Davis drawls, from the desk he’s taken in the front row. Neville can only see the back of his head, but his posture is lazy, and he can imagine the unimpressed look that all pureblood scions seem to have perfected on his face.

“Good,” Umbridge says, and then stomps down the aisle between two of the long rows of desks and out the door, presumably headed toward the Hufflepuff common room.

As soon as she’s gone, someone at the front of the room—Neville thinks it’s Davis again, though he can’t be sure—snorts loudly. That’s enough to trigger a cascade of snickering all throughout the room, even as they set themselves to writing lines. No one wants to stay longer than necessary, and it’s sure she’ll keep her threat, but doing the work doesn’t mean taking it _seriously_. Even Neville can’t hold back some laughter, though he can’t help but wonder what she’s going to do to the Hufflepuffs. Hopefully… well, they’ll see.

Neville has written nearly forty lines, pacing himself to try to save his hand from cramping too quickly, when Umbridge returns. Everyone pauses in their writing to look: she’s leading a small column of Hufflepuffs. The usual six are all there, but they’ve been joined by Justin Finch-Fletchley and Carina Carretto. All of them look furious, and Cedric is limping as he comes through the door, one arm slung over Mahao’s shoulders. His expression is especially dark, his eyes fixed on Umbridge’s back with such rage in his face that it sends a shiver down Neville’s spine. Cedric is a nice person, fundamentally kind and helpful and dedicated, all the things you would expect to see from a Hufflepuff, but this… this is not that. This reminds Neville of what he’d seen on Harry’s face at Halloween last year, when he’d found out that Peter Pettigrew had gotten into the school and attacked the Gryffindors. It doesn’t fade, either, even as Mahao helps him to one of the desks in the same row as Neville’s and he settles in, wincing. Some part of his face goes blank when Umbridge reaches the front of the Hall and turns to watch the Hufflepuffs take their seats, but his eyes are still flinty.

“Back to work!” Umbridge trills, and then to the Hufflepuffs says, “You will be joining your classmates in writing _I must not delay in reporting for detention_. You will all be staying an extra hour to make up for your _tardiness_!”

Sullen silence and the scratching of quills is the only answer she gets, but she doesn’t demand a verbal response as she sometimes does. Instead she just lets them get on with it, her gaze unwavering; she’s watching Diggory the closest, but her eyes drift over them all as they set themselves to the mind-numbing task of writing lines. It’s stupid, honestly, it’s an incredible waste of time and effort, and Neville hates it, but… if this is the highest price he ever has to pay for resistance, he’ll pay it happily.

They have detention every night of the week, of course, and the routine of fetching the Hufflepuffs repeats itself Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, Umbridge looking more apoplectic every time. There are also more Hufflepuffs dragged behind her in the miserable column each time, until it seems like most of the House is in detention, probably the indefinite sort—though at least none seem hurt like Cedric was on that first night. Umbridge’s frustration with their behaviour leads to increased snappishness in class, and more students from other Houses end up in detention as well, bearing the brunt of her anger. By the end of the week, it seems like half the _school_ is crammed into a desk in the Great Hall, most for a terminable period, but still stuck there like Neville and the other DA members in indefinite detention. At least the Saturday night detention is limited to the indefinite crowd, not that that’s such a small group any more—and not that the Hufflepuffs arrive as ordered on that night, either.

There’s also something _off_ on Saturday night. Something in Umbridge’s face when she sees the Hufflepuffs haven’t come catches the attention of most of the students present, and for the first time, no one starts writing as they wait for her to come back. They all just… sit, looking around at one another mutely, because she hadn’t looked quite so angry—no, she’d looked _pleased_. Neville doesn’t like it even a little.

That same smug look is still on her face when she returns, the Hufflepuffs trailing behind her. It’s a given that they _will_ come along eventually, and tonight they’ve arrived quicker than before—maybe that look on her face has put the same dread into them that it’s putting into Neville. He watches them sit, and then sees that Umbridge has approached Cedric, who’s just picking up his quill. She says something to him, quietly enough that Neville can’t hear it—they’re well across the Hall from him tonight—and then hands him a different quill, this one a shining pure black, long and trimmed into a sharp shape. Neville recognizes that quill, and he _already_ hates this, but he can’t say anything, do anything to stop it now. Cedric takes it, inspects it, and, frowning, asks something— _Merlin,_ Neville thinks, _he doesn’t know what it is_. Umbridge just smirks at him and walks away, heading to the front of the room.

“Begin writing at once!” she says loudly from the dais. “For you newcomers, tonight’s line is _I must accept the consequences of my actions_.”

Neville sighs and bends his head to the paper and begins to write while he waits for the reaction that’s surely coming. _She’ll get hers_ , he reminds himself, a refrain that Ron has repeated endlessly in the past week, and begins to write, hearing the scratching of quills pick up all around him—and then, from somewhere else in the room, a low hiss of pain. The incongruous noise, quiet as it is, makes Neville raise his head, and he looks over to Cedric.

Cedric is looking up too—he’s looking at Umbridge, the quill lying on the desk. His right hand is clasped over the back of his left, and he’s glaring, that same black hate in his eyes that had been there the first night.

“Is something the matter, Mr. Diggory?” Umbridge asks in her most saccharine tone.

“Yes,” he says, his voice ringing loud in the quiet hall. Around Neville, other students are pausing in their writing to watch the confrontation. “Your quill cut my hand.” There’s a murmur in the room, people making soft sounds in response under their breath: surprise and recognition in equal measure, because by now there are plenty of people in this room who’ve had the dubious pleasure of a meeting with Umbridge’s blood quill, but there are as many who haven’t.

“Oh, is that so?” Umbridge replies, and smiles. “I’m very sorry to hear that. Unfortunately, as I have already said, that is the quill you are to use for tonight’s detention.”

Cedric’s jaw clenches, and he sits up, straightening his shoulders. “I’m not going to torture myself for your pleasure, _Madame_ Umbridge.”

“I did not ask you to torture yourself,” she replies. “I _told_ you to serve the punishment you are assigned in response to your behaviour—the _consequences_ for your _actions_ , Mr. Diggory. Though I suppose if you don’t want to use that quill, you could always trade with someone else. Now, I believe you are all aware of the line; please resume writing.”

Cedric stares her down for another minute, then looks around at the people seated near him, studying their faces, meeting the eyes of those still looking at him. Neville can see the way Annie steels herself when she turns to look over at Cedric, and he hears her when she says, loud and clear, “I’ll trade with you, Cedric.”

There’s a pause, and Neville can’t see Cedric’s face, but he thinks he can imagine what he might be feeling—the hard clench in his gut, pride and sorrow both, that an eleven year old girl would offer such a thing, and the tightness of fear for her, for what’s going to happen in the days to come to a little girl with that sort of will. He can imagine it because it’s what he feels himself, and he barely even knows her. It must be so much worse for Cedric, and it’s no surprise when Cedric’s reply is a soft, “No, Annie, that’s okay.”

Cedric picks up the black quill again and sets it, slow and deliberate, to the page. Next to him, Annie starts scribbling down her lines with furious emphasis, as if that’ll stop what’s happening in the seat next to her. Neville looks down at his own page, knowing that the brave thing to do would be to watch, to stand a vigil for what Cedric’s suffering for them all. He can’t stop it either, but he could be a witness, at least. But he doesn’t. He just begins to write as well, remembering the pain of the quill and feeling a sort of cowardly gratitude that it’s not him.

After, when Cedric has left the hall with a hovering flock of Hufflepuffs all around him and a handkerchief pressed to his bleeding hand, Neville groups up closely with Ron and Hermione to walk back to Gryffindor Tower. Percy is walking just behind them, shoulder-to-shoulder with Lee Jordan, of all people, who has in the past week landed himself in indefinite detention as well—as a plant for the twins, is Neville’s opinion, but he’s still withholding judgement. None of them speak until they get back to the common room, and when they crawl through the portrait hall a few people look up, the twins and Ginny among them.

“You’re looking grim,” Fred says, when he sees their faces.

“Did something happen?” George adds.

“Umbridge brought out the blood quill,” Lee says, his face set. “On Diggory.”

Everyone in the room who’s listening cringes. More than a few of them have met the blood quill, or seen its effects on others—Lee himself had earned quite of a few of those detentions for his endless mocking of some of the Educational Decrees, and he’s probably always going to have scars that say _I will not laugh at serious matters_.

“Bloody hell,” Ginny mutters, and ignores Percy when he hisses her name. “What’d she have you writing?”

“I must accept the consequences of my actions,” Percy says stiffly.

“Hopefully he doesn’t scar easily,” Lee says, and then, “I’m going to bed.” He looks exhausted; Neville can relate. The twins jump up from the couch immediately and flank their friend, leaning close around his shoulders like lanky ginger parentheses as they escort him upstairs.

“I-I’m gonna go too,” Neville says, and gestures toward the stairs. Hermione immediately turns a disappointed look on him—they were supposed to finish their Transfiguration homework after the detention—but when he just shakes his head tiredly, she sighs.

“Alright,” she says. “Tomorrow you’ve got to get up early, though, really. Letting your grades slip would be letting her win!”

He’s heard her say _that_ before, so he just smiles a little and heads for the stairs. Ron tags along, causing Hermione to sigh and call, “Good night!” after them.

“Night, Hermione,” Ron tosses over his shoulder, and then they’re on their way up to the dorm and out of sight.

* * *

Sunday drifts by like dead air, stifling and still. They’re not allowed out of their common room any time other than at meal times without a library or study pass, which Neville hasn’t bothered to get, though he’s sure he could have asked for one from McGonagall. There just doesn’t seem to be much of a point; they can sit and do homework in the common room, even crowded as it is, as well as they could in a study hall. Hermione, of course, does have a pass—she has several—and makes a trip to the library after lunch, claiming that she’s going to go stir crazy if she has to sit around much longer. Neville feels the same, but what he really wants is to go _outside_ ; Herbology has been the only time he felt halfway settled in the past week, surrounded by clean air and greenery. Everything else has just been unendingly terrible. He can only imagine how much worse it must be to be in Slytherin or in Hufflepuff, whose dorms are underground; at least Gryffindor Tower has _windows_. He doesn’t envy Harry at all right now, trapped in the dungeons with _Malfoy_.

The only _good_ thing about Sundays is that there’s no detention. It means that they don’t get to leave the Tower at all in the evening, but it also means that Neville doesn’t have to sit there in silence while Umbridge forces someone to torture themself like he had last night. Instead Neville sits in the dorm and plays cards with Ron, and eventually Dean comes up from the common room where he’d been hanging around with Seamus and tells them that Hermione has been bugging him to get them to come down and do homework, so they give in and do that for a while instead, and then it’s a reasonable hour to go to bed. Neville lies awake for a long time, staring up at the canopy of his bed, wishing he were asleep because he’s _so_ tired and he doesn’t want to be even more tired when he has to get up and face tomorrow—but he can’t sleep, either, because sleeping would mean that tomorrow is about to arrive. Eventually exhaustion wins, and he slips off into uneasy dreams.

On Monday morning the Gryffindor third years have Transfiguration right after breakfast, paired with the Hufflepuffs. The Gryffindors trickle in, Seamus last with a piece of toast still hanging out of his mouth, and then they wait. There are no Hufflepuffs in evidence. Finally, McGonagall, standing at the front of the classroom with her hands linked behind her back, sighs and says, “I don’t suppose any of you know where your classmates might be?”

Everyone shakes their heads, a few offering verbal “No”s.

“Well then,” she says, then turns to the board. “Miss Granger, perhaps you will be so kind as to offer your notes to those who are… unfortunately absent.” And then she writes up the incantation for transforming snuffboxes back into mice and launches into the lesson as if nothing were wrong.

A nudge to his elbow draws Neville’s attention to where Ron has slid a scrap of paper over in his direction across the desk. On it is written, _We’ve got the best Head of House_. Neville meets Ron’s grin with one of his own and a nod, and then slides the paper back and draws out his wand—if this is anything as hard as _Lapifors_ , he’s going to have to pay attention.

They have Charms in the block before lunch, a lecture with all four Houses—or all three, anyway; no Hufflepuffs there, either. And of course none of the ‘Puffs show up to meals, either. They’re completely missing. Neville’s not sure the cost of the resistance is worth it—how long are they going to keep themselves cooped up? For all that their common room is probably cozy, it’s underground, and they’re all going to go stir-crazy inside of a week. Not to mention the risk of failing their classes, and for the fifth and seventh years, failing their exams if they don’t make it to class. Is Umbridge worth it? He’s not sure—but then, she lies and demeans people and tortures children, so getting rid of her at any cost does seem pretty worthwhile. But is this even _going_ to get rid of her? Thoughts and questions chase each other around in Neville’s head all through the evening, all the way down to that night’s detention, where of course the Hufflepuffs don’t show up once again, and Umbridge is back to looking furious about it; she’s clearly found out about their playing hooky from class.

The now-established ritual of her setting their lines and then stomping out to fetch the Hufflepuffs repeats itself, and it’s a long time before she comes back, long enough that Neville starts scribbling down _I must behave in accordance with my role_ just for something to do. Finally, she _does_ return, but there’s no one with her: she’s been bested at last, somehow. Whatever she’d been doing to compel them in the past wasn’t enough this time, and, thwarted, she looks about ready to murder someone over it. Neville ducks his head when she casts a gimlet stare over the people who _had_ showed up, gets on with his work, and wonders, _Why am I here?_

It seems he’s not the only one wondering, because on their way back to Gryffindor Tower that night, Ron mutters, “Should we…?”

Neville shrugs. “There’s a lot fewer of us. Might not go well.”

Hermione, on Neville’s other side, looks torn. “D’you think Percy would—“

From behind them, Percy says, “No,” quite loudly, and Neville cringes.

“Er, sorry,” Ron says, glancing over his shoulder at his brother. “Just, well, I can’t be the only one who was thinking it.”

“Definitely not,” Lee says cheerfully, and Ginny, Seamus, and Alessandra Hopkirk, who’d all landed in detention for a few nights, all nod as well.

“Like as not every Hufflepuff is going to be expelled,” Percy says. They come to the Fat Lady then, so Percy doesn’t say anything more, falling quiet as Hermione gives the password and they file inside, into a deserted common room. Lee and Seamus both head upstairs right away, and Hopkirk excuses herself as well, leaving Neville and Hermione with the Weasleys. It’s not until it’s just the five of them that Percy continues, “As unfortunate as circumstances are, I would very much not like to see any of us expelled.”

“Better out there than trapped in here with _her_ ,” Ron says, mulish.

“ _Out there_ ,” Percy says, gesturing at the windows, “there are Death Eaters, Ronald. Cruel Umbridge may be, but she is not going to kill any of us.”

Ron recoils a little, then sets his jaw in a manner that Neville is unfortunately familiar with. “I thought Gryffindors were supposed to be brave,” he says. “Supposed to stand up for what’s right. But then, you’ve never known the difference between what’s _right_ and what the _rules_ say, Percy.” And then he turns and storms off to the dorms, leaving his brother white-faced behind him.

“Sorry, Percy,” Neville says, quietly. Percy just looks at him. “I’ll… I’ll go talk to him. That wasn’t fair—and, and I don’t think he meant it.”

That seems to break Percy’s paralysis; he draws himself up and says stiffly, “There’s no need for that, thank you, Neville. It wouldn’t do much good—my brother _always_ means what he says, unfortunately.” Then, his dignity clutched close around himself, he walks off too, headed upstairs on Ron’s heels, though surely not to talk to him.

Ginny, the only Weasley remaining in the common room, just sighs heavily. “They’ll figure it out,” she says to Neville. “Always have before. C’mon, Hermione, the boy drama is over for the night I think.”

“Okay,” Hermione says, reaches out to pat Neville on the shoulder, and heads with Ginny for the girls’ dorms, leaving Neville standing alone.

Neville looks around the empty common room, at the low flickering flame in the fireplace and the accumulating mess from all the time everyone’s been spending here, at the landscape above the mantel, at the window which looks out onto the moonlight grounds, and sighs. He doesn’t really want to go upstairs right now, because Ron’s surely fuming, and he never knows whether it’s better to try to talk about it or to leave him alone—neither option goes well. But his pyjamas are upstairs, and he’s probably never going to be able to sleep on the couch down here ever again, so… needs must. He rubs a hand over his face, feeling the faint ridge of the scar on his forehead—probably the only thing that _hasn’t_ changed recently, he thinks; at least he can always count on Voldemort wanting to kill him. Then he swallows that thought down, says, “Right,” and goes to find his bed.

* * *

Gemma watches closely as the tension builds in the first week of the Hufflepuffs’ new rash of absenteeism—or, well, not _complete_ absenteeism. The first day they’d holed up entirely, missing from halls and grounds and classes, and no one had seen where they’d gone. But on Tuesday they reappear, wandering the corridors and the grounds as they please during class time. All the teachers are, well, _teaching_ , leaving only Filch to attempt to corral the Hufflepuffs, and he’s not especially effective at that, because they’ve already all got detention already and he’s not strong enough to physically drag them to his office for punishment of a more _corporal_ kind, much as he’d probably love that—much as Umbridge would probably let him. So they just go about doing… well, not _doing_ anything, really—they just do normal things, like read and talk and play games in the study halls, as if they just had spare blocks. Sometimes the fifth and seventh years will even turn up to class, though never to Defence. They’re just going about their own business and ignoring what Umbridge _thinks_ they should be doing, and she can’t do anything about it.

Umbridge is more and more angry every day, prone to ranting rather than teaching—not that she’s ever done much of the latter—and eager to hand out punishment for even the slightest hint of disrespect or disobedience. The Gryffindors and Ravenclaws only have more House points than the Hufflepuffs by virtue of the Hufflepuffs not having any at all; Slytherin is probably going to win the House cup this year, but really only by default. It’s all she can do to mind the direction in which Umbridge is lashing out and do what little she can to keep those attacks aimed away from the Slytherins. Not that she has much power at all, or that watching Umbridge assign detention after detention to students in other Houses makes her feel much better. On Tuesday night, Umbridge gives the black quill to a Gryffindor first year, and he cries as quietly as he can while its point carves _I must not encourage disobedience_ into the back of his hand. He doesn’t deserve it. None of them do and if Gemma were a little braver she’d probably be joining the Hufflepuffs in their cheerful thumbing of noses at Umbridge’s rules.

But Gemma had told the Slytherins to keep their heads down, and it’s what she has to do, too—for now. She doesn’t know what Professor Snape thinks of any of this, and isn’t going to ask. Instead she keeps herself to herself, studies, attends detentions, and wonders when Umbridge is going to turn on them. She will, eventually. She’ll turn on anyone who she thinks she can make her victim, and eventually the only ones left to her will be the Slytherins. It hasn’t happened yet, but Gemma is sure that the Gryffindors and the Ravenclaws will join the Hufflepuff rebellion before any of the Slytherins do, and that will leave the Slytherins alone in Umbridge’s line of fire. It’s a frustrating state of affairs, but she knows that it’ll be necessary to open the eyes of some of the more stubborn students among the snakes.

The first crack comes on Monday morning, one week after the day that the Hufflepuffs took action. Umbridge glares out at the students as they arrive to breakfast—less the Hufflepuffs, of course—and then, some ten minutes after Gemma herself has arrived and sat down to fill a plate, Umbridge gets up and stomps over to Professor Sprout’s seat.

Gemma puts down her fork. She doesn’t want to miss a moment of this, and by the way heads are turning all around the Hall, no one else does either.

It’s impossible to make out what Umbridge says, because her voice is only a harsh whisper and her face is turned such that Gemma’s still-tenuous lipreading skills aren’t up to the task of decipherment. Fortunately, Professor Sprout’s response is loud and clear: she looks at Umbridge and says, “No,” firmly and with enough volume that it travels across the Hall. People go quiet, those who weren’t already watching, and everyone turns to look.

“That is not—“ Umbridge begins, equally loud, and then lowers her voice again, hissing something further.

Professor Sprout listens quietly, then puts her fork down with the same decisiveness that Gemma has seen her pull a weed. “I believe you heard me the first time, Madame Umbridge—I said no.”

“You _will_ ,” Umbridge says. “You must take charge of those unruly children! This is unacceptable!”

“Unacceptable to _you_. However, I think that what is unacceptable to you is _eminently_ acceptable to me.” Sprout’s expression is nearly serene. “Much as it may make you angry to hear it, I’m not sure I’ve ever been so proud to be Head of Hufflepuff House.”

“Your House is full of troublemakers and rabble-rousers,” Umbridge says, “and—and rabble! Not one of those _brats_ has the right to snub my authority in this way, and you _are_ going to support me in this.”

“No,” Sprout says for a third time, and this time she rises to her feet—she’s not an especially tall woman, but she’s big and broad, and the roundness that usually makes her look soft and motherly just makes her look _substantial_ next to Umbridge’s shorter figure. “And in fact, Madame Umbridge, I think I will take this opportunity to make a request of you in return: stop torturing the students. All of the students, but especially mine, or else you’ll be learning sooner rather than later what the wrath of a badger _really_ looks like. Am I clear?”

“I—“ Umbridge looks stymied for a minute; Gemma barely restrains a cheer. “I’ll have you sacked for threatening me!”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Sprout says.

Umbridge reels back—and then she draws her wand. She raises it, some hex or other resting on her lips, and then there’s a flash from further down the staff table and her wand goes spinning from her hand into Professor Flitwick’s. He’s standing on his chair, having risen while everyone was occupied, and he glares down the table at Umbridge.

“I will not see the professors of this school reduced to duelling in front of the students!” he declares, as angry as Gemma’s ever heard him. “Madame Umbridge, I will return your wand as soon as I have your assurance that you will not harm my colleague.”

Umbridge opens her mouth to respond, but Sprout cuts her off. “Oh, no need to bother, Filius,” she says. “I’ll be on my way—I think my point has been made, and anyway, I have NEWT Herbology shortly. I believe Madame Umbridge knows the score.”

She steps back from the table and from Umbridge and walks quite calmly to the staff door at the back of the hall, and halts at the doorway to turn and say over her shoulder, “You’ve roused the anger of the school, Dolores—to put it quite lightly, you fucked up.” Then she’s gone, and as soon as the door clicks behind her, the entire Hall bursts into cheering. Umbridge just stands there, staring, even when Flitwick floats her wand over to lie on the table beside her. When the cheering finally dies and students begin to file out of the hall, chatting with friends and retelling the events to one another in loud voices, she snatches up her wand and storms out herself, but she’d so obviously _lost_ that Gemma can’t but smile.

Next to her, Ayesha nudges her gently with an elbow. “Never knew she had it in her,” she says, when Gemma turns that smile on her.

“Sprout, you mean?”

“Yes.” Ayesha smiles too. “I suppose even the most patient woman in the world must come to the end of her rope eventually.”

Gemma leans over and kisses her cheek. “You’d know. Come on, let’s get to class.”

They go—they’re both in NEWT Herbology, in fact, and there’s a faint air of awe amongst the seventh years gathered around in the greenhouse. Professor Sprout is professional as always as she instructs the class on the successful means by which to gather Carnivorous Arum stamens, but as class time draws short, she pauses and says, “If there aren’t any pressing questions, I’d like to say something to you all about the events of this morning.”

Most of the class had been at breakfast, and those who hadn’t had heard at least the short version from friends during the walk down to the greenhouses, so the glances traded are knowing ones.

“Go ahead, Professor,” Gemma says. “I’m sure by now we all know to come to office hours if we need.”

Sprout smiles. “Thank you, Miss Farley.” Then she sweeps her gaze over the entire class, measuring them one at a time—it reminds Gemma a little bit of Professor Snape, which maybe makes sense; you have to have a certain kind of perceptiveness about people to be a good Head of House. “Now, I probably didn’t show myself in such a good light this morning—“

“You rocked,” chimes in one of the Ravenclaws—Emily Turner, Gemma thinks her name is—who then blushes. “Sorry, Professor.”

“Quite alright, Miss Turner,” Sprout says. “I only meant to say… all of you now are facing a choice. Umbridge may _try_ to sack me, though as I said she’ll not succeed. But it still places a burden on each of you, to know where you stand and decide how firm that stance is—or, rather, this is a choice you have all been facing for some time, and now the opportune moment to decide looms. I feel the need to say this to you now, because you are all in seventh year, which means that in only a few short weeks, we here at Hogwarts will no longer be able to protect you, and as of this morning it has become clear to me how much that fact has been weighing on me. I have struggled with my inability to protect the students in my House in this past year, especially in this past few weeks—and I struggle now with the thought that all of you will go out into a dangerous world, filled with those as hateful as Umbridge, and you won’t have a shield even as insubstantial as the one we, as your Heads of House and your teachers, provide.”

She waves a hand. “I’m going on… you must be wondering what I’m getting at, but I’ll say one more thing, first. I was Sorted into Hufflepuff at age eleven on account of my stubborn belief in the best in people. That with a little polish, and a little work, _anyone_ could be good, or could learn goodness. I certainly believe that of all of you. But I have also learned as I have gotten older that not everyone makes the effort, and those who are willing to fail at decency out of laziness or spite are far worse than those who fail because they don’t know that decency is possible. I hope that my teaching and what little influence I have had on you in these past few years has taught you that decency _is_ possible—and so the choice I mentioned, the one all of you must make, is as follows: will you do the work? I don’t mean all of you must change the world—no, I only mean that in each day hereafter I would ask you to consider whether you have done what you have done because it is _easy_ , or because it is _right._ ”

Sprout looks around at all of them again, then nods once. “Class dismissed. Have a good morning.”

The seventh years disperse slowly, putting away gloves and gathering up notes and making their ways silently out of the greenhouse. Ayesha has Arithmancy next, which Gemma usually walks her to though she doesn’t take it herself, but when her girlfriend touches her wrist in question Gemma shakes her head—she wants to talk to Sprout. Ayesha seems to understand, grants her a swift smile, and heads out, leaving Gemma the last person lingering.

Sprout, who’s been shuffling supplies around while waiting for the students to depart, looks up after a moment and says, “Ah, Miss Farley. Was there something you needed?”

“Not really,” Gemma says. “I just... wanted to say thank you.”

Sprout smiles. “Of all the people in this greenhouse, you needed to hear that speech the least, my dear. But I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

Somewhat to her own dismay, Gemma feels herself flush slightly, pleased and embarrassed in equal parts by the compliment. “Thank you. Er, again.”

Sprout laughs kindly. “It’s quite alright, Miss Farley. I understand. And, please—if you need any help in these coming days, don’t hesitate to contact me. I know that to some, snakes and badgers are natural enemies, but I find we work rather well together.” And then she winks.

Gemma smiles. “I’ll be sure to do that, Professor. And… look after yourself, too, okay? You and all the teachers. I get the feeling that we’ll be needing you.”

“I rather think you’ll be strong enough on your own to accomplish anything that might be necessary,” Professor Sprout says, her tone more solemn than the sunny look on her face. “But I appreciate it, dear. Now, off you trot—I’m sure you’ve got homework to get done before you can relax with that young lady of yours.”

“Right,” Gemma says, and then, because it feels like the right thing to do, makes a proper bow, Heir-to-Head, before departing. She’s not sure that Professor Sprout, to her knowledge a halfblood at best, would even recognize it, but… she _is_ the Head of a House, after all, even if it’s a school House and not a familial one. She’s owed respect—more than what Umbridge showed her this morning, at the very least, and more besides, on the basis of the formidable spine she’d just showed if nothing else.

“What a morning,” Gemma mutters to herself as she begins the trek back up to the castle. Certainly she’s got plenty to think about.


	16. The Break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, dropping off the face of the earth for six fucking weeks? it's more likely than you think!
> 
> Okay memes out of the way, on a more serious note: a MASSIVE thank you to everyone who's left me a kind word in the comments during my, uh, absence. I've been pretty fucking depressed--thank you so much, new COVID restrictions+onset of winter!--and your comments have been the best sparks of joy I've found recently. I haven't had to jam to reply, or to update, or do... really much of anything, but please know that I read every single comment that gets left and they warm me right to the bottom of my soul. 
> 
> I love you all!! Please enjoy this chapter, I like it a lot. 
> 
> And, for the record: I'd very much like to have the remainder of year three posted by the end of 2020, so the current plan is to post weekly for a bit here until we finally get to the end. And then Book Four will appear. Uh. Sometime. In 2021. I promise!

By the first of May, the Slytherins are the only ones still coming to class on any sort of reliable basis. The Gryffindors had disappeared from meals within days of Professor Sprout’s rebuke to Umbridge almost en masse, and the Ravenclaws had followed in a trickle soon after. Classes had gone more piecemeal, and the Ravenclaws are still showing up more often than the Gryffindors or Hufflepuffs, but their attendance has become patchy enough that _for Ravenclaw_ it’s certainly a statement. The Slytherins, on the other hand, are if anything _more_ rigorous than usual. Not that Harry has ever missed a class except for after his injury in the Quidditch game last year, and not that he’s habitually late, but he’d heard that Pericles Hatzi had showed up to Transfiguration with a fever the other day and been forcibly dismissed by McGonagall, and even Crabbe and Goyle have been turning up on time. Of course, only Umbridge is remotely impressed with this—the other professors either seem to take it without notice (Snape, Flitwick, Vector, Binns), or are visibly disapproving of the brown-nosing of Harry’s House (McGonagall, Sprout, Babbling, Hagrid… well, all the rest, anyway). Harry just tries to keep his head down, as he’s _been_ trying to do for months.

Right now, keeping his head down pretty much means avoiding all contact with anyone outside of his own House, because anyone caught violating Umbridge’s rules or _associating_ , to use her word, with anyone violating her rules gets stuck with detention. Not that people are reliably showing up for those, either, but she’s given the remaining Inquisitorial Squad members full license to help her in rounding up rule-breakers for detentions after dinner, up to and including hexing people, which several of them have taken to with great glee—Malfoy among them, of course. Harry at least hasn’t had detention in a while; in light of all of this other trouble-making, Umbridge seems to have more or less forgotten her grudge against him.

He sort of misses his friends, though.

But that’s neither here nor there. What’s important, by his reckoning, is getting through the last few weeks of term without cutting his hand open with that stupid quill ever again or having to duel Malfoy in the common room for the right to skip out on a pointless detention and do his homework. He says as much to Sirius during one of their now-nightly calls, passing news back and forth; after the newspaper with the announcement of the attack had arrived, Harry had made a point to start calling Sirius regularly, because he _refuses_ to get caught off guard like that again. He needs to know the state of the war, or else he’s going to be a pretty crap spy. He’s even made a point of inviting Blaise and Theo to listen in as Sirius gives updates about recent attacks and disappearances—only one more yet of the former, on a small mixed muggle-and-magical village in Wales, but more and more of the latter every week. For the more personal part of their conversations, though, Harry always closes his curtains and retreats into the warm, quiet bubble of darkness that that creates.

That’s where he is when Sirius says, “You know, I’ll storm the castle if you want, Harry. I’ll get you out.”

Harry just sighs. It’s not the first time Sirius has made the offer. “I know,” he says, as patiently as he can. “I just… my friends are here. Even if I can’t stand up for them right now, because I’d _really_ rather not draw any more of Umbridge’s attention.”

Sirius nods, sympathetic. Harry very carefully has edited out the blood quill, but he’d told him about the long, frustrating strings of detentions, boring and pointless as they were, and about Umbridge’s apparent hatred for the House of Black. “I can’t say it’s what I’d have done when I was your age,” he says, “but I freely admit that I was an idiot when I was your age.”

“Damn right!” comes Remus’s voice, faint in the background.

“Piss off, I’m talking to Harry!” Sirius yells back.

Harry laughs. “Hi, Remus!” he says more loudly, and Remus shouts a hello back.

Sirius chuckles, and then says, “Other than Her Horribleness, how’s term going? You’re in the final verse now, at least.”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “It’s been a bit weird without Dumbledore here—everything feels off. But class is going on pretty much as usual, for me anyway. I’m still liking Runes a lot.”

“That’s good to hear,” Sirius says. His smile is warm and wide. “If you continue to enjoy it, maybe you’ll end up in a related career—go into warding or curse breaking or something, hm?”

Harry nods. “I said that to Theo the other day and he looked like I’d grown a second head.”

“Still expecting you to play the proper Heir and go directly into estate management once you’re old enough, huh? Or laze around until I kick the bucket?” Sirius asks, sounding amused. “You’d think they’d all know better by now.”

“He does, mostly,” Harry says. “It’s different for him though. And… I think it’s been hard for him to really think about anyone’s future but his own.”

Sirius sobers a bit, nodding. “Is he ready for me to pull him out? I’ve been talking to Albus a bit, and to some of my contacts among the Aurors; I’ve got ideas about how to do it. And a place to put him—we’ve been cleaning up the Black townhouse.”

The Black townhouse? Harry frowns, finding that although Sirius talks about it like Harry should know it, the memory of the place is… slippery. “You mean, um,” he says, and digs for the address. “I—why can’t I recall?”

“Ah,” Sirius says. “Right, sorry—we redid the Fidelius, so you’ll have forgotten. The place is warded to the gills, I’m not using it, and it’s central; makes a good headquarters, you know? But I let a few people in on the Secret over the years and we wanted to start fresh, with someone a bit less obvious than myself as Secret Keeper.”

“Oh, okay,” Harry says. That makes sense, he supposes. He wonders how weird it would be if he told Sirius not have the Secret Keeper tell him the Secret. Very, unfortunately—no one not the Secret Keeper can tell the Secret, of course, that’s how it works, but… Harry still thinks that he should know as little as possible. At least he’ll be able to honestly tell Voldemort that he doesn’t know who the Secret Keeper is, though he suspects it’s Dumbledore. “Will we be staying there over the summer?”

“No. I’d much rather you stay well out of the business of the war, so you won’t be coming to HQ any time soon—not that I don’t want you knowing what’s going on,” Sirius adds apologetically. “But…”

“It’s risky for me to be so involved.” Harry understands. If he were in any less of a precarious position he’d probably be mad, but this is for the best. “So I’ll come home to the Doghouse as usual?”

“Yes.” Sirius smiles again. “I’ve got some ideas for things to teach you this summer, for sure. I hope it’ll be an enjoyable break, even with… everything.”

Harry nods, grinning back. Even with everything, as Sirius says, he’s looking forward to going home. In some ways, things are simpler at Hogwarts, but all the same he’s very much looking forward to having his freedom back. “I can’t wait,” he says.

“Well, just a few more weeks, then exams, and then you’ll be out of there.” Sirius gives him a searching look, then glances down out of the mirror’s frame—checking his watch, Harry thinks. “And in the meantime, it’s well past your bedtime, so I’ll let you go and get some sleep.”

“Wow,” Harry says. “Sounding like a responsible adult there, Padfoot.”

Sirius rolls his eyes. “Good night, you brat. I love you.”

“Love you too, Sirius.”

The mirror blanks and Harry shoves it under his pillow where his wand is already stashed—he’ll put it away in the morning. He flops down, rolls over, and sighs, his eyes drifting closed. Just a few more weeks.

The next day, unfortunately, they have Defence Against the Dark Arts in the last morning block. Not that today’s lecture is about defending against the Dark Arts at all—Umbridge instead spends the time quizzing them on ways to confuse a muggle who may have seen them doing magic without performing an illegal spell. It assumes an insultingly poor level of intelligence for the hypothetical muggle, and it’s not like Harry doesn’t know that some muggles really are that stupid, but he also knows that not _all_ of them are. But he grits his teeth and takes notes as expected and lets himself feel glad that even studious Hermione has taken to skipping Umbridge’s class, so that she doesn’t have to hear this. He doesn’t say a single word, doesn’t make eye contact, and at the end of the period packs swiftly to leave.

Umbridge stops him before he can get out the door, though. “Mr. Potter,” she says. “Stay behind.”

“Yes, Professor Umbridge,” he says, and locks eyes with Blaise. His friend gives him a swift nod—he and Theo will wait.

Everyone else filters out, Malfoy offering Harry a sneer which Harry meets with a stony glare, and then the door shuts and he’s alone with Umbridge.

“Mr. Potter,” she says, “do you know why I have held you back?”

Harry shakes his head. “No, ma’am,” he says. He can’t quite manage a properly respectful tone, which she definitely hears, if the way her eyes sharpen is anything to go by. Damn it. “Is there something wrong?”

“Indeed,” she says, and opens a drawer in her desk to pull out a small sack, which she then upends over her desk. A selection of prank items spill out; Harry recognizes dung bombs and a Nose-Biting Teacup. “Do you recognize these items, Mr. Potter?”

“No,” he says, quite honestly. Even before the embargo, he’d never really been one for prank products, even if Sirius might wish it were otherwise. He’d bought a few small things at Zonko’s at the early Hogsmeade weekends, before she’d put a stop to those, but all consumables meant for a quick laugh rather than this elaborate stuff. That was more Fred and George’s speed.

Umbridge purses her lips, but there’s triumph in her eyes. “I had thought we’d cured you of your dishonesty,” she says. “Mr. Malfoy brought these to me this morning and told me that he’d found them during an inspection of _your_ belongings, Mr. Potter.”

“What?” Harry scowls. “That’s not true—I’m not the liar here, Professor, I swear. And anyway, what was he doing going through my stuff? He has no right!”

“He has every right, as a member of my Inquisitorial Squad, to inspect the belongings of any student suspected of hiding contraband with or without their knowledge,” she says primly. “And as you have a history of lies and Mr. Malfoy does not, I think I know whose story is more likely. Detention, Mr. Potter, for the next three nights consecutively, and we shall see if we can teach the lesson more _thoroughly_ this time.”

Harry wants—he wants to scream and shout and tell her to bugger off back to hell where she came from; he can feel his face going red with the effort of holding back his anger and is briefly grateful for his dark skin that hides the flush. But he can’t snap, not _now_. As it is, she’s probably gleeful for the opportunity to use that damned quill on him again, and if he explodes on her he’ll be stuck in detention for the rest of the term, and the scars will be so deep that he’ll never be able to hide them. “Fine,” he says instead. “Ma’am.”

“Well then,” she says. “I’m glad you’ve learned some amount of respect at least, Mr. Potter. Now, off you trot to lunch!” And with one of those girlish giggles and an obnoxious twiddle of her fingers, she dismisses him.

He storms out of the classroom and nearly collides with Blaise, who’s standing just outside the door.

“What happened?” he asks, taking in the dark look on Harry’s face. Theo’s there too, looking concerned.

“Malfoy made up some cock and bull story about me having stuff from Zonko’s and she’s given me detention,” Harry says through gritted teeth. “I’ll bloody well kill him, I swear.”

Theo sighs. “Better not,” he says, “though I respect the impulse, Harry. Look, there’s no way _Umbridge_ of all people is going to be the one to beat the curse; she’ll be gone one way or another at the end of the year and we’ll have all next year to get him back tenfold.”

“But I want to kill him _now_ ,” Harry whines, and then laughs with his friends, some of the tension sliding away. “Ugh. He’s the worst.”

“No, _she’s_ the worst,” Blaise corrects. “But he’s a close second, you’re quite right. Honestly, I’m glad you ended up Slytherin, Harry, or I’d probably have been stuck sucking up to him just for the social capital. This is much better.”

“Yes, well, we all already knew I’m a gift,” Harry says. That sits for a second, and then they all start laughing again, and begin making their way down the hall—if Umbridge comes out on her own way down to lunch to find them laughing in the hall instead of on their way to the Great Hall, there’ll only be more trouble. Harry’s in enough as it is—he’s really not looking forward to tonight, and they’ve got Potions to get through this afternoon, still. Not that it hasn’t actually been kind of nice, recently—with only the Slytherins in class, Snape is able to give much more specific advice to each student, and with his own House his manner is significantly less unpleasant. Not that he’s _nice_ , exactly, but he doesn’t swoop around glaring at everyone either. That all still doesn’t make Potions _easy_ though, and so Harry decides to put the detention out of his mind until the time comes.

Easier said than done, of course, but he gets through the afternoon and then scrambles to get a bit of homework done in the common room in the hour after dinner before detention. He lets himself have the time right up until the last minute, at which point a certain pointy blond someone appears to loom in his light and clear his throat meaningfully.

Harry looks up at Draco Malfoy, who of course has a superior look on his face, and thinks back to his earlier imagining of a duel in the common room to defend his own right to not bow to stupid pointlessness, and then sighs and says, “I’m coming, Malfoy. Don’t get your knickers in a knot.”

While Malfoy is still busy sputtering about how he doesn’t wear knickers, Harry packs up his homework, hands it off to Theo to take back to the dorm when he retires, and gets up to meet Gemma over by the door, where she’s talking quietly with the few other Slytherins stuck in detention tonight—just those in indefinite detention, this time—waiting for it to be time to go.

“Alright there, Potter?” she asks, amused.

He rolls his eyes. “I’m not sure I should get into it just now,” he replies. “We have somewhere to be, after all.”

She just makes a disgusted noise at that, and they set out in their small group. Harry hasn’t had detention in a while and hasn’t missed the simmering tension of the walk from the dungeons to the Great Hall. No member of Slytherin House is happy to be here—they’re the only ones who’ve made _any_ effort to toe the line, really, and yet they’re still being punished. If Harry thought he’d have any real support, he’d have put up a stink about it a long time ago, but he’s not convinced that he would. Gemma, maybe—but no one else would be in a position to stand up for him, so he keeps quiet and he walks up the stairs and hopes that Umbridge will just... decide not to use the quill on anyone tonight. He can’t quite bring himself to wish it on someone else in his own stead; if she chooses him, he can at least avoid the guilt of knowing that someone else is suffering in his place.

The number of desks in the Great Hall is reduced when they arrive. Umbridge has apparently given up on dragging in recalcitrant students who don’t come on their own. Some students from other Houses do still show up, of course—for some people, there _are_ limits. Hermione and Neville are both there when the Slytherins arrive, as are Cedric, Percy Weasley, Lee Jordan, Penelope Clearwater, and a number of others that Harry doesn’t recognize, mostly from Gryffindor and Ravenclaw—in fact, almost entirely; Cedric is the only Hufflepuff present, a stone-faced representative of his House.

Harry settles into a desk near the side of the room, just a few desks over from Neville, and returns his friend’s smile when Neville catches his eye. No one’s talking, but people greet one another with nods and smiles as they all settle into desks and set up parchment, quill, and inkpot how they like them. Umbridge herself is there, standing at the front of the room as always, but she surveys them in silence until a few minutes after the detention is set to start, at which point she says, “The line for tonight is ‘I will not resist rightful authority’. You may begin.”

And then, as everyone picks up a quill and begins to write, she steps down off the dais and heads straight for Harry’s desk. As she comes, she pulls a familiar sharp black quill out of her pocket, and in the pallid mix of torchlight from the walls and starlight cast by the ceiling its silver point gleams. Harry sighs and sets down his original quill. Umbridge smiles.

“Mr. Potter,” she says when she arrives at his desk, making no attempt to keep her voice low. “You will be writing with this quill tonight. Your line will be _I must not tell lies_.”

Harry holds out his hand and she places the quill into it. He weighs it for a moment in his palm—so light, to cause so much suffering—and considers throwing it on the ground and stomping on it.

From the desk just behind him, Gemma says, “No.”

He turns at the some time Umbridge does to look at her. Gemma stands, her chair scraping across the stone floor, and fixes Umbridge with a glare.

“Miss Farley—“ Umbridge begins, but she doesn’t get far.

“I said _no_ ,” Gemma says. “I will not stand by for a moment longer and allow you to torture my fellow students, especially underage children from whom I have been made responsible in my role as Head Girl. To expect me to do it would be an insult—no, a _crime_.” And then she steps around her desk and does exactly what Harry had wanted: she snatches the quill from his hand, throws it to the ground, and crushes it beneath her heel.

Umbridge gasps, her face flushing bright red. “Miss Farley!” she shouts. “You—“

“Yes, me,” Gemma says. She leans in—she’s taller than Umbridge, her light hair a perfect sleek ponytail, shining in the low light; she looks beautiful and composed, and she looms impressively. “Me and all the others: we’ve had enough.” She gestures around at the hall, and Harry looks to see that the other older students have risen too: Cedric and Clearwater and Weasley standing tallest, most firm, but the others too, and slowly the younger students are rising as well. “This ends here.”

“Yes, it does,” Umbridge shrieks. She draws her wand—so slowly, Merlin, after all the training he’s had with Sirius Harry can’t _imagine_ , and yet he’s still not prepared for it when she whips it up and points it at Gemma and says, “ _Flagellio!_ ”

A flash of white light, and Gemma recoils with a cry, her hand flying up to press against her chest. Another flash, and she stumbles back; a third sends her to her knees, and the fourth sends her face whipping to the side, a long thin line of red appearing across her cheek like someone had caught her across the face with a whip. Umbridge doesn’t stop. Everyone is stunned, watching. Then Harry shoots to his feet, and even as he’s calling his wand to his hand he shouts, _“Expelliarmus_!” In the next second, his fingers clench around the handle of his wand, and he—wonders. He hasn’t even been practicing the Disarming Charm wandlessly, but...

Umbridge’s wand lands with a clatter somewhere behind her, and the room falls very quiet, silent except for Gemma’s harsh breathing where she’s kneeling. Harry steps in between her and Umbridge.

“You are not to interfere with the punishment of another student,” Umbridge says to Harry, glaring.

“The last corporal punishments were stricken from the books at Hogwarts by Dumbledore shortly after he became Headmaster,” Hermione says, from somewhere off to Harry’s right. Her voice is shaky, hollow.

“Dumbledore isn’t here,” Umbridge snaps in response. She whips around and stomps over to retrieve her wand. No one stops her—no one seems _able_ to stop her. One she has it back in her hand, she says, “Everyone get back to work. Miss Farley, with me.”

Harry is still holding his wand. He looks down at Gemma, and she looks back, her blue eyes shining. Then she nods.

Harry’s wand is up and aimed before he needs to think twice. The spell doesn’t even need an incantation, his desire to see Umbridge _pay_ is so sharp. He only wishes it were something harsher than a _Stupefy_ that strikes her; as it is, the hollow thud of her skull bouncing off the floor when she collapses has to be enough.

Terence stands up and crosses the room. He stands over Umbridge for a moment—Harry almost thinks he’s about to kick her. But then he spits instead, a glob of saliva landing on her pink cardigan, and says, “Don’t touch Slytherin House.”

Then he turns and walks out of the room. They all watch him go, the shock of the past few minutes—had it been such a short time?—still holding most of the students in the Hall paralysed.

Gemma, at Harry’s side, lets out a breath and, with a groan, begins to climb back up to her feet. Harry vanishes his wand back into his holster and turns to help her, swiftly joined by Astoria Greengrass, and then everyone’s crowding around, making sure Gemma is okay.

“You should go to the hospital wing, Farley,” Hermione is saying worriedly. “Madame Pomfrey should really look at those welts.”

The one on Gemma’s face is bruising with impressive speed, but she smiles, even though it must tug painfully. “Yes, you’re probably right, Hermione. Harry, Astoria, come along with me?”

“Of course,” Harry says, propping himself up under Gemma’s shoulder to help her stand. She doesn’t really need it—she’s standing, though her legs are a little shaky—but she seems to appreciate it nonetheless. Astoria comes to stand on Gemma’s other side, and after a moment slips her thin hand into Gemma’s. The three of them walk together out through the doors of the Great Hall, and behind them all the other students come in a procession, breaking off as they pass through the halls toward their own common rooms; as they go, chatter rises in their smaller groups. And then finally all the rest are gone, and it’s only the three Slytherins, making their slow way up to the infirmary.

“Do you think Higgs is telling everyone what happened?” Astoria asks, after a while. Her voice is soft and sweet; Harry’s not sure he’s ever heard her speak before, but it reminds him a little of Luna’s, though without the dreamy quality that Luna always has.

“Yes,” Gemma says. “I wouldn’t be shocked if Ayesha came bursting in at some point.”

Harry grins a little. “She’s very protective of you.”

“She thinks I’m an idiot,” Gemma sighs.

“She’s probably not wrong,” Harry says. “I could have handled it, you know. It wouldn’t be the first time she’s gotten me with that quill.” He holds up his left hand, the one not wrapped around Gemma’s back, to show her and Astoria the pale scars: _I must not tell lies_.

Astoria gasps quietly. “Oh, Potter—that’s awful.”

“Call me Harry,” he tells her. “And it’s fine, really.”

“It’s not,” Gemma says firmly, looking down at Harry. “I couldn’t stop her before, but I could this time. You deserve protection too, you know.”

“I know,” Harry says. He doesn’t say that _deserve_ isn’t the same as _will get_ , and that he came to terms with the fact that if he wants the protection he deserves, he’ll have to do it himself. But then... tonight, he didn’t have to. Gemma was there, looking out for him—the realization warms something in him, and he smiles a little. “I do appreciate it.”

“Well, good,” Gemma says. “Glad you’re not entirely ungrateful. Now come on, the hospital wing’s just ahead.”

She’s right—they’re nearly there. The door of the infirmary is open, fortunately, and when they step inside they can hear Madame Pomfrey bustling about somewhere in the back, maybe in her office.

“Madame Pomfrey?” Harry calls. “We could use some help!”

“Oh, dear!” she exclaims from out of sight, and appears a moment later. She’s carrying a vial of lime green liquid that Harry recognizes as Dittany, probably expecting another victim of that horrible quill. Her eyes go wide when she sees Gemma and says, “Goodness! Miss Farley—well, let’s get you sitting down now, come on.”

Harry helps Gemma over to one of the beds—she’s moving more gingerly by the second, the bruising from whatever Umbridge’s hex setting in quick and deep. It was a lashing curse of some sort, Harry thinks; he knows from the few times Uncle Vernon had been angry enough to take a belt to him how much that sort of damage hurts. Madame Pomfrey shoos them out of the cubicle with Gemma’s bed and closes the curtain before they can see the extent of the bruising that hides beneath Gemma’s clothes, and Harry and Astoria go to sit on a visitors’ bench in an adjacent cubicle.

“Are you okay?” Harry asks Astoria, after a few moments.

She looks up at him. She looks a lot like her sister, Daphne, though she’s dark-haired where Daphne is blonde. They have the same dark eyes though, and their faces have the same shape. Harry sees more of Daphne, being in classes with her, and he can tell that in a few years her sister will look a great deal like her. Her smile, though, is a lot more gentle than the poisonous sneer that Harry often sees on Daphne’s face. “I’m okay,” she says. “Thank you. Are you?”

“I’m fine,” Harry says. “You shouldn’t worry about me.”

She shrugs. “It’s polite to ask.”

“I guess so.” Harry looks over at the curtain now between them and Gemma—the curtains have muffling charms on them, too, so they can’t hear anything that she and Madame Pomfrey might be talking about.

“Do you think Gemma will be okay too?” Astoria asks, after another moment.

“Yeah,” Harry says. “She’s strong.”

“Even strong people can be not okay sometimes.” When he looks at her, Astoria shrugs again. “That’s what my mum says.”

“Your mum’s pretty smart.”

“I think so,” Astoria says, a little shy. “I want to be just like her when I grow up.”

Harry hasn’t actually met Amaryllis Greengrass, Heir Greengrass, but he knows Sirius thinks fairly well of her. “That’s a good goal,” Harry says. “I... I’d like to be like my mum. Sirius and Remus say she was smart, too.”

“You mean Lily Potter,” Astoria says, and Harry glances over at her, surprised. “People say mean things about muggleborns who marry into the great Houses, but I think it’s admirable. Not very many of them make it that far in our world, you know.”

Harry swallows down a biting response—she doesn’t mean to be insulting. “I suppose not,” he says, and he can’t keep all the tightness out of his voice. She clearly hears it, because she turns to give him a wide-eyed look.

“Sorry,” she says. “I only meant—“

“I know,” Harry replies, waving her away. “It’s... it’s okay. My parents married for love, is all. Not for status.”

“Gryffindors,” she says, and shrugs. “You know, you can have love _and_ status. The latter doesn’t make the former false.”

Harry thinks about that—thinks about Remus, whose relationship with Sirius protects him from discrimination, at least a little. But they also love each other more than he thinks he’s ever seen anyone love anyone else. “I guess that’s true,” he says. “Did your parents marry for love?”

“No,” she says. “They’re just friends, really. But that’s okay—they love each other, even if it’s not like your parents did. They work well together. And they love us.”

Well, there are worse things. Harry thinks about saying as much, then decides that Astoria will probably come to the right conclusion about the source of the comment, and he’d rather not share something like that with a girl he barely knows. Not that he’s sure she doesn’t _know_ —Sirius had used what the Dursleys did to get guardianship, and that means Harry’s childhood is probably old news in the pureblood gossip mill by now. They hadn’t shared many details, but people had surely made up all sorts of stories. Still, that doesn’t mean he has to _talk_ about it.

Before he can think of something more appropriate to say in response, the sound of hurried footsteps on stone draws their attention to the doors of the infirmary. The footsteps slow as they approach, and then Hussain appears in the doorway, her face composed but her hands twisted together in front of her. “Potter?” she says, spotting him. “Is Gemma here?”

He points at the curtain. “With Madame Pomfrey. You should go in, she wouldn’t mind.”

Hussain nods and goes straight to the curtain. When she parts it to look inside, the sound of Madame Pomfrey’s voice filters out, then breaks off mid-sentence.

“Aya!” Gemma cries, and there’s a thump, and then Hussain stumbles back a step, Gemma having flung herself into her arms. Gemma’s in her shirtsleeves and trousers, her robe missing, and Harry can see that there’s some sort of greenish paste smeared on the bruise on her cheek.

“Gemma,” Hussain murmurs, hugging her, and then loosens her grasp when Gemma visibly cringes a little. “Are you okay? Terence said—“

“Just bruised,” Gemma says, a little breathless. “You came, though.”

“I always will.” Hussain kisses Gemma’s cheek, the one without the paste, and then seems to remember that Harry and Astoria are there, watching. “Potter, I’ll sit up here with Gemma. Take Greengrass back down to the dungeons?”

Harry nods and hops up to his feet, Astoria just behind him. “See you later, Gemma. Thanks again,” he says to her, and when she nods, he waves for Astoria to follow him and heads for the door. Astoria waves goodbye to Gemma and Hussain and follows along.

“Is it okay?” she asks, once they’re out in the hall. “To go without an older student, I mean?”

“Umbridge is napping,” Harry says. “No one else is going to cause us any trouble, so we’re fine.”

Astoria laughs a little, covering her mouth with her hand as she does. “Right. Okay.”

“Come on.”

They make their way back down to the common room at a brisker pace than they’d made it to the infirmary, and Harry gives the password when they get there, opening the door into a sort of contained chaos. He’s not sure he’s ever heard anyone shout in the Slytherin common room before, but now a _lot_ of people are shouting, groups arguing amongst one another, Malfoy attempting to lecture at the top of his lungs from a corner, even people getting physical—Higgs has a fistful of Pucey’s collar and is shouting into his face. “Oh,” Astoria says quietly at Harry’s side, looking at it all.

“Go find your sister,” Harry says, making a snap decision. “I’m getting Snape. Clearly no one else has the head to do it.”

“Okay,” she says, a little tremulous, but she darts off quick enough through the crowd, looking for Daphne. Harry turns around and sprints right back out of the common room, sorry that he hasn’t been able to keep up his running practice in the mornings—he’s out of breath by the time he makes it to Snape’s office. He pounds on the closed door until it’s yanked open, and nearly ends up hitting Snape himself with the momentum before catching himself.

“ _What_?” Snape demands, glaring down at him.

“You’d better come,” Harry pants. “There’s bound to be a riot in the common room if you don’t.”

“What happened?” Snape says, still demanding, but he shoves past Harry and begins making his way with long strides toward the Slytherin common room nonetheless, his cloak swirling behind him.

“Umbridge tortured Gemma,” Harry says, jogging to keep up. It’s hard to run and speak at the same time, but he’ll do what he has to. “In detention—she used some sort of hex, it was like she’d been whipped. Greengrass—Astoria—and I took her to Madame Pomfrey. I think Higgs came back and told everyone, and now they’re all arguing.”

Snape doesn’t make any reply to that, but he picks up his pace slightly. It’s only minutes before they make it back to the common room door, and Snape passes through without giving the password, the door forming at his touch.

It says something about the state of the House that silence doesn’t immediately fall when Snape walks into the room; a few people turn and look, but it’s not until he shouts, “Silence!” that the last few people stop fighting. It’s quiet then, except for a few soft sounds: harsh breathing from here or there, and somewhere on the other side of the room, the hitching sounds of someone crying.

“What is going on here?” Snape says. He doesn’t have to shout—his tone is deadly enough.

Higgs steps forward. “Umbridge used the Flagellation Hex on Gemma,” he says. “I think that’s plenty of proof that she’s fucking evil for those who haven’t figured it out yet, but some of these idiots are too addicted to licking her boots, I guess.”

“Sir, you _can’t_ condone this unruliness!” Pucey says, pushing forward himself to stand next to Higgs. Higgs shoves him with a shoulder, and Pucey turns on him—Harry’s sure he’s about to see Higgs get punched in the face, but Snape says, “Enough,” so forcefully that it’s impossible to ignore.

“I certainly do not condone fighting within Slytherin House,” Snape says. “However, I also do not condone the torture of members of this House by an outsider.”

“Farley must have done something to earn it,” Pucey insists.

From across the room, Malfoy chimes in, “Yes! Sir, you must understand, Farley has been fomenting rebellion within the House. She’s a bad influence! The Headmistress would never punish someone without good cause.”

“Were you there?” Snape asks, looking first at Pucey and then at Malfoy. There’s a pause, and then slowly, both shake their heads. “Who was?”

“I was,” Harry says.

“Me, too,” Higgs adds. “And Astoria.”

“Where is Miss Greengrass?”

From the back of the room, her soft voice calls, “I’m here, sir. Sorry.” A few people move out of the way so that she’s visible through the crowd—the entire House must be here, crammed into the common room, Harry thinks.

“No need to apologize,” Snape says, unexpectedly soft. But his voice firms again when he turns to Harry and, black eyes fixed on him, says, “Mr. Potter, you are the only person who had the good sense to come fetch me rather than taking part in this argument. What happened?”

Harry swallows. All of a sudden, there are a _lot_ of eyes on him, not just Snape’s; it reminds him of testifying in front of the Wizengamot. But if he could do that, he can do this. Umbridge isn’t half as scary as Voldemort, and Malfoy isn’t his father. “We were in detention,” Harry begins.

“So you see!” Malfoy shouts. “They’re trouble-makers!”

“Silence,” Snape says, low and silky, in the way he gets when he’s _really_ angry. “Or I will silence you, Mr. Malfoy. Go on, Mr. Potter.”

“Thank you, sir,” Harry says. “Umbridge, as you may know, is in the habit of using a... a cursed quill of some sort on some of the students. She’s used it on me before.” He holds on his hand to show Snape the scars, as he had for Gemma and Astoria earlier. “She was going to use it on me again tonight.”

“What does this quill do?” Snape says. “I know of it in the abstract, but for myself and those who have not seen it in action, the specifics, please.”

“When you write with it, it carves the letters into your skin,” Harry says bluntly. “The ink it uses is the writer’s own blood. She had me write ‘I must not tell lies’ _hundreds_ of times, I think—I’d say the lesson sunk in.” He shoots Malfoy a look. “So please, trust me when I say that I’d not have liked to do it again. But I was prepared for it; she hates me. She came over with the quill and gave it to me, but before I could start writing, Gemma stood up and objected.

“She said she wasn’t going to let anyone harm another student in her care.” Harry looks around at everyone gathered in the common room, the gestures at them all, all the Slytherins, younger and older. “We’re her House, sir, and she’s Head Girl. She wasn’t... she wasn’t going to let that happen any more.”

“I see,” Snape says. “What then?”

“Gemma stomped on the quill. Umbridge drew her wand and cast a hex—the Flagellation Hex, I guess. I’m not familiar with it, but I could see it hurting her. I think...” Harry hesitates, not sure how to describe the shock that had paralyzed the room.

“We all stood there like numpties,” Higgs interjects bluntly. “None of us knew what to do. It’s not like we haven’t watched that bitch torture other students plenty of times with that quill, but seeing a teacher hex a student—seeing _anyone_ draw a wand to do harm against someone else? She’s the Defence professor; she’s supposed to teach us how to prevent that sort of thing, not be the one doing it.”

“It was terrifying,” Astoria says.“She wasn’t going to stop. Fortunately, Harry stopped her.”

Snape’s attention, and the attention of the room with it, whips back around to Harry. He smiles grimly—this much at least he has no trouble admitting to, openly and proudly. “I disarmed her. She told me not to interfere with the punishment of another student, but _fuck_ that,” he says, suddenly vicious. “I wasn’t going to stand there and watch her torture Gemma when Gemma had just stood up for me—that’s _not_ how things work in Slytherin.”

“No,” Snape says, soft. “Is there more?”

“She went and got her wand,” Harry says. “She told us to sit down and go back to work, and said that Gemma should come with her. I... I think we all knew that whatever happened if she could get Gemma behind a closed door would be bad. So I stunned her.”

Snape blinks at that, then raises an eyebrow. “Are you admitting that you assaulted a teacher, Potter?”

“I’d have done worse,” Potter says, “but there were first-years watching.” He nods at Astoria. “We try not to teach them bad habits, you know.”

Harry sees just the faintest flicker of an upturn at the corner of Snape’s mouth, and then he banishes the amusement before it can show in full. “That is hardly appropriate.”

“She deserved it,” Higgs says. “She tortured Potter and Gemma and Diggory and Jordan and who knows how many others—we all saw it. And she’d probably have done much worse to Gemma if she hadn’t had witnesses. Potter did the right thing, and I _will_ fight anyone who disagrees.”

“That will not be necessary, I should think.” Snape turns away from Harry then and looks around the room—without asking about where they’d left Umbridge. He could probably guess. “I will remind you all that while within the walls of this castle, your first and greatest loyalty should be to your House. And by that I mean _Slytherin_ House. Who you are out there matters less in these moments than who you are _here_.” Emphatic, he points at the ground beneath them all, the stones that make up the lowest floor of the castle, its foundations. “This House defends you, and in return, you defend this House. If you are not with us, you are against us. And if you are against us, Slytherin owes you nothing, and indeed you owe Slytherin a great debt for the protection that it has offered you thus far. Gemma Farley is Head Girl because she is the best and brightest of _all_ of you, and to abandon her is to abandon a paragon of this House. Do not forget your duty.” Then he turns to Harry and says, “However, I would also remind you all that it requires a considerable lack of the cleverness that we call characteristic of this House to admit openly to assaulting a teacher _to another teacher_ , Mr. Potter. Detention _with me_ , for a week.”

Harry resists rolling his eyes. “Yes, sir.”

“As for the rest of you,” and Snape turns back once more to the room. “At the beginning of the year I expressed a hope that all of you would choose wisely when it came time to decide whether to flow with the tide or to resist it. You are out of time to make that choice; it is now time to sink or to swim.”

Then he whirls on the spot, brushes past Harry, and is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GEMMA FARLEY BEST GIRL, I WOULD KILL FOR YOU, I'M SORRY I HURT YOU BUT IT WAS FOR A GOOD CAUSE


	17. The Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay i KNOW i said weekly updates but IN MY DEFENCE between the last update and this one i: got interviewed, got hired, got trained, and then started my new job. also, celebrated my birthday. also also, submitted a phd application. it's been a whole fuckin week!
> 
> here is a LONG CHAPTER
> 
> (the last chapter of this book is fairly short, so this is THE CLIMAX, PLEASE ENJOY)

They don’t really get any warning that things have gone rapidly very wrong. Neville is woken by the sound of someone pounding on their dormitory door, and then an unfamiliar voice shouts “Up and at ‘em, boys! Down to the common room as soon as you’re dressed.”

Ron is groaning something about wanting five more minutes over in his bed, but Neville is wide awake instantly and jumps up to go to the door and stick his head out. The person has already moved on, but he can see their back as they continue on up the stairs toward the fourth year boys’ dorm, and they’re dressed in very familiar red. He slams the door shut again, turns to the rest of his roommates, and says, “It’s an Auror!”

“An _Auror_?” Seamus says, incredulous. He’s still scrubbing sleep out of his eyes, hard enough to redden his cheeks. “Why the hell—“

“Look, I don’t know,” Neville says, “but that’s what I saw. He was wearing red robes. Come on, we’d better go find out what’s happening.”

He goes over and prods Ron in the ribs to make sure he’s awake, and then gets dressed quickly, not bothering to brush his hair or tie his tie properly. Dean’s quick getting ready too, so they’re the first ones out the door, not waiting for Seamus, who’s just behind them, or Ron, who’s still grumbling as he drags his feet. When they get down to the common room, half the House is already assembled, milling around in confusion and dismay. By the fireplace, Professor McGonagall is having a quiet but fierce discussion with another Auror, this one female. After a moment, Neville recognizes the Auror: Nymphadora Tonks, whom he’d met at Harry’s birthday last summer. Her hair is a drab green, but it’s standing up in spikes around her head, giving her the look of a person who’d just been electrocuted, and she doesn’t look much more pleased than McGonagall.

There’s a delay of about ten minutes while all of Gryffindor assembles. Neville finds Hermione in the crowd and waits with her; Ron joins them after a few minutes and the three of them speculate quietly. Hermione is sure that Umbridge has called in the Aurors, but Ron insists that that’s ridiculous—Aurors are for catching _criminals_. Neville’s not sure who he agrees with; he really doesn’t know _what_ to think.

Finally, however, Professor McGonagall clears her throat and draws all attention to her. The room falls quiet, and Hermione stands on her tiptoes to see past the shoulder of a fifth year standing in front of them.

“I apologize to you all for the rude awakening,” McGonagall begins. “However, there has been a development of which you must all be made aware. As of now, Hogwarts is under Ministry control. The Aurors have been brought in to... keep order. There are further details to be had, but they will have to wait until we are all together in the Great Hall, which is where we will now be going. Breakfast will be provided once Madame Umbridge has... had her say.” The distaste is audible in the professor’s voice, but her face is set, and she turns to lead the House out of the tower and down to the Hall. Auror Tonks is still at her side, and two more Aurors, one male and one female—neither anyone Neville recognizes—herd students away from the edges of the room toward the portrait hole.

“I told you!” Hermione hisses to Ron as the crowd begins to move around there. “Umbridge brought in the Aurors!”

“This is mad,” Ron says. “We haven’t done anything!”

“We’ve been skipping classes and meals for weeks,” Neville points out. “I’m sort of more surprised she didn’t do something like this sooner.”

“Well, we can’t fight _Aurors_ ,” Hermione says.

“Not if you’re talking about it at that volume,” someone says. Neville looks over to see that Ginny has joined them, sliding over from the group of second year girls she’d come down with. “But I bet we could take ‘em.”

Hermione scowls at her. “Ginny, you’re _twelve_. You _cannot_ fight an Auror.”

“Watch me,” Ginny says, turns up her nose, and vanishes back into the crowd.

Ron groans. “Why’s she got to be so mental all the time?”

Neville shrugs philosophically in reply. “Girls.”

“Hey!” Hermione says.

Ron gives her an apologetic look. “Can’t say he’s wrong.”

“ _Boys_ ,” she says, disgusted, then she vanishes as well.

“What did I say?” Neville asks, watching her go. She’s pushing ahead through the crowd to get to the portrait hole ahead of them—it’s acting as a bottle neck, preventing the House from moving out with any real speed.

“Who knows,” Ron sighs. “We’d better go after her, though.”

Neville nods, and they do their best, but the crowd gets denser toward the door and they have to slow down, people trickling out into the halls of the castle. Once they make it out, they figure out why the pace is so slow—on the other side of the Fat Lady’s portrait there are another four Aurors marshalling the Gryffindors into a tidy line, making sure that no one can slip away. McGonagall is still there as well, watching with a pinched look, and once everyone is out she says, “Onward, then.”

It’s a quick walk down to the Great Hall, the Aurors hurrying everyone along. One of them shouts at someone at the back of the line to stop dawdling; Neville glances over his shoulder and thinks it might be Lee Jordan. He’s probably trying to fall behind to escape—not a bad plan, except for how it’s obviously not going to work. There’re too many eyes on them.

The feeling of being watched—well, the _reality_ of being watched, really—only intensifies when they actually reach the Great Hall. There are at least twenty more Aurors there, standing along the walls and watching the students filter in. The Hufflepuffs are already there, an Auror at each end of their table, and even as the Gryffindors are taking their seats the Slytherins begin to file in in their own column, somewhat more orderly than Gryffindor’s and organized by year. Snape strides past his House’s table as they begin to sit down and goes to join McGonagall, who’s come to stand on the staff dais next to Professor Sprout—the other members of the staff are seated, everyone including Trelawney, who hasn’t been seen out of her tower since she was sacked, but Sprout is standing in front of the table. She has her arms crossed and a flush in her cheeks; Neville’s not sure he’s ever actually seen her _angry_ before, but he’s pretty sure this is what it looks like. Snape, on the other hand, just looks as pinched as McGonagall, and greets his fellow Heads of House with a silent nod before crossing his own arms to watch the students sitting in the Hall.

Something about the air in the room keeps them all quiet, though Neville can tell that Ron would love to lean over and whisper a comment. There are a lot of things that a person _could_ say right about now, but... as for himself, Neville doesn’t really want to say any of them. He just wants to wait, to see what’s going to happen next. He’s never been much good at predicting what’s to come—he doesn’t have Hermione’s logic or Ron’s sense of strategy. So he just needs to be quiet, to watch, and hopefully be ready for anything.

The Ravenclaws arrive before the Slytherins are finished sitting down, similarly orderly, and Flitwick joins the other Heads of House, and then soon enough the entire student population is sitting down together for the first time since... probably since January, the start of term. Almost six months ago. It’s quiet and tense, and all of them know what— _who_ —they’re waiting for, but she lets them dangle for a few minutes longer. Then the staff entrance to the Great Hall opens and admits Umbridge. She takes her time walking along the staff dais, looking out at them all with a smug look on her toady little face, until she finally comes to a stop in the centre of the room, where Dumbledore’s lectern usually sits during the start-of-term feast.

“Hem hem,” she begins, because of _course_ she does. The room is silent already, so her high-pitched cough almost echoes. “Thank you, students, for gathering in such a timely manner. I’m sure that all of you have gotten used to a more leisurely existence in these past weeks, but you will have to recover the habits of order. As your Heads of House may have told you all, Hogwarts is now under _my_ control—that is, the control of the Ministry of Magic.” She clears her throat again, as if to banish the slip; Neville sees an Auror standing against the far wall shift slightly on his feet. “These Aurors you see around you have been sent to ensure that order is maintained in these last few weeks of term, through to your exams. There are two Aurors assigned to each year-level in each House, and those two Aurors will be your escorts to and from your classes, as well as to meals and to detentions. Truancy will no longer be permitted.”

“It was never _permitted_ ,” Neville hears someone mutter down the table. “You just couldn’t stop us, you bitch.”

Umbridge’s head turns toward the Gryffindor table, her gimlet stare falling on them—whoever had spoken hadn’t spoken quietly enough. “Silence,” she snaps. “Now, I have been very tolerant of your misbehaviour so far, but there will be no tolerance any longer. If anyone is caught misbehaving, there will be no second chances; you will be expelled and removed from the school _immediately,_ and I will _personally_ ensure that you are not re-admitted. If you do not wish to utterly destroy your own lives and futures, you _will_ obey. This is for the greater good, children. The time has come for you to learn your lesson about the value of order, and your _place_ in the order of society. You are children, and you will listen to your elders and your superiors, and you will not be unruly, disrespectful, or rude. Am I understood?”

There’s a pause, and then she repeats, her voice losing its sugary tone, “I said, am I _understood_?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Neville mutters—he’s not the only one, though some shout their agreements. He’s not sure how much to believe what she’s saying, but he doesn’t fancy crossing wands with an Auror—or facing his gran if he gets expelled. So... hopefully _someone_ will have a plan. She can’t be allowed to do this, but how to stop her is beyond him.

The response seems to satisfy Umbridge, at least, because she says, “Good. Now, we will all sit down and have a nice breakfast, and then you will all attend your classes, and everything will be fine.” She holds up a hand and snaps her fingers; food appears on the tables just like it does at other meals, and slowly, hesitantly, people being to tuck in. The Aurors don’t leave, don’t sit down to eat themselves, they just stand at the edges of the room and watch. The Heads of House make their way to their own seats, but as Neville fills a plate and picks away at his breakfast he notes that they’ve got their heads tucked close together, talking quietly, or else are picking at their meals the same way he is, lost in thought. Somehow he doubts they’re any more a fan of this new policy than the students are, but… well. Other than Sprout, he’s just not sure.

No one’s talking except in the occasional whisper. There’s no laughter, no chatter in the Great Hall as the students make their way through their breakfasts. The professors eventually finish and get up to go prepare for class, but Neville lingers, sitting with Ron and Hermione and pushing a bit of fried tomato around on his plate until finally Hermione says, “I think our… escorts are gathering the third years.”

Neville looks up to see that, yes, one of the Aurors is walking down along the table, pausing here and there to collect other Gryffindor third years. He’s a tall man with dark brown skin and a bald head, and though his expression is stern, he’s not shouting at anyone or anything like that. When he gets to them, he leans down slightly and says, “Mr. Longbottom, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger—I am Auror Shaklebolt. Please come along.” He’s got a deep, resonant voice, smooth and intentional in the way he speaks, and though they can’t exactly say no it doesn’t feel like a hardship to get up and follow along with him.

Their other guard is a woman, waiting at the end of the table—she looks over the group, nods once, and says, “Alright, off we go.” She leads them out of the Hall and toward the front doors in a clump, with Shaklebolt taking up the rear.

“What do you think we’re supposed to do if we’re not in Care of Magical Creatures?” Lavender says quietly to Parvati.

Parvati shrugs, but from behind Shaklebolt answers, “I will supervise those who do not have class. We will find a place on the grounds to sit, so that you can study or relax.”

“Oh,” Lavender says, glancing over her shoulder. “Um, thanks Auror Shaklebolt.”

Neville looks over at him too, in time to catch a nod.

“We’re not here to be your jailers,” the female Auror says. “Much as it probably feels that way.”

“Maybe _you_ aren’t,” Seamus mutters.

She looks over at him just as they pass through the front doors and into the sunshine—it’s a beautiful day, and it’s nice to be out, though Neville wishes it were under pretty much any other circumstances. “School shouldn’t feel like prison,” she says. “You’re here to learn and to grow up in a safe environment. That’s all we want.”

Neville exchanges glances with Hermione and Ron. That sounds a lot like the sort of stuff Umbridge has been saying, just nicer.

“How many are not in Care of Magical Creatures?” Shaklebolt cuts in, before anyone else can respond. There’s a pause, and then Lavender, Parvati, and Kellah put up their hands—Fay and Tatsuki are in the class along with Hermione and all of the boys in their year. “Alright,” Shaklebolt says, once it’s clear that no one else is going to indicate themselves. “We three shall break off and go to the lakeside, I think. Zima, take the rest to their class.”

The female Auror—Zima, apparently, though Neville’s not sure if that’s her first or last name—nods crisply and says, “Yes, sir.” Then she shepherds the group heading toward Hagrid’s hut away, leaving the other three with Shaklebolt.

As they walk, Seamus says, “Are you going to have to escort us _everywhere_ like this? Isn’t that boring?”

She shrugs. “It’s my duty. And I’ve missed Hogwarts, really—haven’t been back since I graduated, you know, but I liked it here. There’re worse jobs.”

“I guess it’s less dangerous than chasing Death Eaters,” Ron says, mostly to Neville, though Dean snorts and nods agreement.

Zima just shoots a sharp look over her shoulder. “Who’s been talking to you about Death Eaters?” she asks.

“We saw the papers at Easter,” Hermione says. “We know about the attack. And… well, no one _knows_ anything of course, but if they’re attacking Diagon Alley they’ve got to be doing other things.”

But Zima just shakes her head. “Don’t try doing an Auror’s job before you’re even out of school, Miss—what was it?”

“Granger.” Hermione exchanges a look with Neville; Shaklebolt had known all their names.

“Right, Granger. Anyway—look, leave it to the adults. You don’t know the situation, and you’ll only get your nose bit off if you try sticking it in.” Her tone is patronizing, and Neville can see Hermione drawing herself up in indignation; he puts his hand on her shoulder before she can start in and shakes his head.

Hermione just lets out a breath, deflating a little, and says, “Fine.”

“We’ll all be just fine if we keep to our own places,” Zima advises. “And for now, your place is in class. Looks like Professor Hagrid is ready for you.”

Sure enough, Hagrid is ready and waiting—Care of Magical Creatures is one of the few classes that Neville had tried to go to at least occasionally during their break. He likes Hagrid, even though his ideas about what’s too dangerous for thirteen year olds are a little skewed sometimes—but the classes are fun and interesting, and he explains things pretty well, which is more than Neville can say for Binns… or Snape. They have Care with the Ravenclaws, who arrive just a few minutes after the Gryffindors, and so goes the day: Zima and Shaklebolt escort them from class to class, standing by and watching the professors deliver their lessons, and then to meals where they stand by again like they had at breakfast. When they get to eat lunch, Neville isn’t sure—maybe they don’t, though neither of the Aurors says anything about being hungry. After dinner, while the school is still gathered under the twilight roof of the Great Hall, Umbridge reminds them that some of them are required to attend detention tonight, and then dismisses them to their dorms. They’re escorted back again, this time in whole-House groups, and _finally_ left to their own devices once they’re back inside the portrait hole, though an unfamiliar male Auror—Neville thinks he’d been the seventh years’ escort—informs them that there will be a constant guard outside the tower during the night, supposedly in case they need anything, and that someone will collect the group meant to be going to detention in an hour.

It’s like everyone lets go of a sigh all at once as soon as the portrait hole is closed behind him and the students are _finally_ alone once more. People break off into groups, talking in hushed tones, and Neville sits down on one of the couches with Hermione and Ron. He dumps his school bag on the ground between his feet and slumps back into the couch, exhausted. They’re joined shortly after by Ginny, the twins, and Lee.

“This is awful,” Fred says, almost as soon as he’s sat down.

“Just untenable,” George agrees. “Something’s going to—“

“—have to be done.”

Hermione is nodding, somewhat to Neville’s dismay. “We can’t fight the Aurors, but—“

“Who _says_ we can’t?” Ginny cuts in. “I said it this morning, Hermione—just watch me. I got pretty good at my Bat Bogey Hex when the DA was still practicing. We all learned how to duel. Spells, stuff like that. We could totally beat them if we worked together.”

“I mean—“ Neville says, hesitant, and when everyone looks at him clears his throat. “I mean, we don’t… have to, do we? It’s only a few more weeks until exams. And… the Defence position is cursed. Something’s sure to happen to Umbridge before the end of the year, or over the summer, so things will go back to normal eventually.”

“I think _we_ should happen to Umbridge,” Ginny insists.

“Much as we appreciate—“

“—your very sensible caution—“

“—we think Ginny’s right,” the twins say. Fred continues, “At this point, it’s really just a matter of principle. We can’t give up _now_.”

“I suppose not,” Hermione says, “but what exactly do you expect we can do?”

The twins exchange a look. “Well,” George says. “You know how Umbridge confiscated anything fun from anyone?”

“Yes,” Hermione says, slowly.

“She didn’t get _everything_.” Fred reaches into his robe pocket and pulls out a metal tin, which he carefully cracks open to reveal shimmering black powder.

“Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder,” George says proudly. “We imported it a while ago, we’ve been experimenting in our spare time—and we’ve had a lot of that lately, what with the lockdown.”

“No time to play pranks, more time for experiments,” Fred adds. “And we’ve got other things too.”

“Not a lot—“

“—but enough.” They give a decisive nod in unison, and Fred stashes the tin of powder again.

“That’s good,” Ron says, leaning in. “What else have you got?”

The twins begin explaining their small stores of supplies; between themselves and Lee Jordon, they’ve managed to hide a decent amount of Darkness Powder, a Portable Swamp, about a dozen Dungbombs and twice again as many Stink Pellets, a few fireworks, and a variety of other things that they describe as “experimental,” some of which are apparently more reliable than others.

“Only what we could cobble together from our own supplies, y’see,” George says.

“But some of the upper years sold us some of their potions supplies, under the table like,” Fred says.

“Okay, okay,” Ron says, and he has the calculating look on that he gets when he’s coming down to the last few moves of a chess match before checkmate. “That’s more than I thought. And there are... how many DA members in Gryffindor?”

“Including us? Twelve, at least who came regularly,” Hermione says.

Neville nods—that seems about right. The initial group, the ones who’d met in the Hog’s Head in October, had grown. Not everyone was willing to get in trouble, and most of the older students hadn’t bothered because they could self-study and had had better teachers in previous years, but a few more younger students had started coming along.

“Right,” Ron says, and taps his fingers against his knee, counting in his head. “About forty regulars from all the Houses, I think... that’s not many fewer than the Aurors. And with older students, not just the ones in the DA, plus people like Harry...”

Neville nods. “We outnumber them. Probably more people would fight than we think.”

“Definitely,” Ginny says. “Christine and Carlotta—my _roommates_ , Ron, I’ve mentioned them before—hate Umbridge too. They’d definitely help.”

“Okay,” Ron says, and taps his knee again, more decisively. “We’ll make a rough plan, then start talking to people, seeing who can do what and who’s willing.”

Neville waves a hand tentatively, then clears his throat when everyone looks at him. “We can’t force anyone to help. They have to volunteer.”

“Of course,” Hermione says, reaching out to pat his shoulder. He smiles at her, a little weak. Then he pulls out a scrap of paper from his school bag and a book to use as a writing surface, and he begins taking notes while Ron, the twins, and Hermione hash out the beginnings of a plan of attack between themselves. He glances up occasionally to see that there are some other Gryffindors listening in quietly to their planning session, or having their own close, quiet conversations, heads bent over scraps of parchment or books or hands folded together, people deciding what to do, where to stand. The tension from this morning, what they’d all felt when Umbridge had made her speech, it’s still there, but... it’s shifting.

Just before their hour break before detention is up, Neville tucks away his notes amongst his class materials and takes his bag upstairs, then joins Hermione, Ron, the twins, Percy, and Lee to wait. At the hour on the dot, the male Auror from earlier comes into the common room to fetch them as promised, and they walk in a silent clump together down to the Great Hall; Kingsley, who’d been posted outside the door, falls in with them. When they arrive, however, something is off: there’re a group of Aurors standing in front of the doors, and one of them is loudly saying, “—not going to use that sort of force against _children_ , Dawlish!”

“We were brought in to keep order, and that’s what I’m going to do,” another replies, and then he whirls and marches away, red robes flaring around him. A few other Aurors follow him, but the rest linger, most with uncertain looks on their faces.

After a moment, one of them—Tonks, Neville realizes—looks up and says, “Oh, fuck. I mean, shit. I mean—“

“It’s fine, Tonks,” another female Auror says, patting her on the shoulder. “Kingsley, Higgs. We’ve got a situation.”

“Stay here,” says the unfamiliar male Auror, who does actually have a faint resemblance to Terence Higgs—probably cousins. He and Kingsley go over to join the small crowd of remaining Aurors, who fill them in in a low enough tone that Neville can’t hear what they’re saying.

He drifts a little closer to Hermione and whispers, “What do you think’s going on?”

She shrugs, but she’s peering at the Aurors. “Maybe someone’s already pushing back.”

Ron, on her other side, nods. “That’d make sense, wouldn’t it? Who’d’you think it is?”

“The Hufflepuffs, if it’s anyone,” Hermione says. “That’s always who it’s been, hasn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Neville runs a hand over his face. “I hope no one gets hurt.”

Hermione reaches out and squeezes his arm, and Ron presses a little closer to both of them. “Me too,” she says.

After a minute of quiet discussion, Higgs turns and leaves the group of Aurors, heading after Dawlish and the few others that had followed him. Kingsley returns to the Gryffindors, a troubled look on his face. “As you have likely surmised,” he says, “there is some… trouble afoot. However, it need not affect you. We will go ahead to your detention, and I will escort you back to your dorms afterward, as planned; hopefully this will all be resolved quickly and peacefully.”

“What’s going on?” Hermione asks.

“Is it the Hufflepuffs again?” Ron adds.

Kingsley gives them a bit of a look, but says, “Yes. They’re proving… resiliant. As I said, it will not necessarily affect you. Come along.” He waves them after him and they skirt the group of Aurors to enter the Hall. There are a few others standing guard inside, as well as the usual crowds of detention-goers from Ravenclaw and Slytherin. A few greetings are exchanged as they all settle into their desks, and then one of the Aurors calls out, “Alright you lot—Madame Umbridge isn’t going to be here tonight, but she said the line was _I will not step out of line_.”

Neville exchanges a look with Ron at the desk next to him; if _she’s_ not here, then at least no one’s going to get stuck writing with the blood quill. Not that it makes this any more fun, and if she’s not _here_ then she’s probably off trying to do something terrible to the Hufflepuffs—but that’s information to try to gather tomorrow, when they have a little more freedom. For now they have a job to do, and so Neville puts his head down and gets to work.

* * *

The Aurors do their best to keep them from finding anything out, but Gemma has something they don’t: Harry Potter. The brat continues to be highly sneaky, which is very much to her benefit. He comes back from his fourth evening of detention with Snape—the second night of the occupation of Hogwarts by the Ministry—with news. He delivers what she can only think of as a report in a quiet corner of the common room: the Hufflepuffs have barricaded themselves inside their own common room, and the Aurors are camped outside, trying to get in… or starve them out.

“I only saw it from the outside, and a bit of distance,” Harry tells her in an undertone, watching over her shoulder as he talks for anyone eavesdropping. “Didn’t want to get caught.”

“That’s good,” she says, clenching her hand on his shoulder, and then letting go to dig out a scrap of parchment and a quill. “Can you draw their positions?”

He looks at her, then takes the writing materials and begins to sketch a very rough map. “What’re you planning?” he asks, as he does it.

“If we can get the Hufflepuffs free and take out some of the Aurors at the same time, we might have a chance of turning this whole thing around,” she says. She takes the sketch from Harry when he’s finished and studies it—he’s used exes to mark the rough positions of the Aurors camping around the entrance to the Hufflepuff common room. They’re grouped around in a semi-circle, a net waiting to snare anyone who steps outside. But they’ve got their backs to the hall, and that’s an opportunity.

“Maybe,” Harry says, thoughtful. “Who do we have?”

She waggles a hand. “Nine members of the DA, including me, at least.”

“That’s your defence club?” When she nods, he makes another thinking face. “Blaise and Theo might be willing, if I asked, and Blaise was good in Defence before Umbridge.”

“Okay,” she says—he’s taken it as a given that he’ll be coming along, clearly, and she’ll be glad to have him. He’s never come to a DA meeting, but he lives with Sirius Black, and she _saw_ him take down Umbridge. He might be a better duellist than _she_ is. “What about from the Quidditch team?”

Harry shakes his head. “Maybe, but doubtful. Warrington?”

“He’ll join,” Gemma says. He’d been part of the Inquisitorial Squad, but never because he’d really _believed_ in it, and since Easter he’d returned to their group of friends.

“So, maybe a dozen of us, against as many Aurors.” Harry makes a face. “Not good odds.”

“No.” Gemma sighs, looking down at the sketch. Not good odds at all. But… “I might be able to rally the House. It’d be a risk.”

He’s looking at her when she glances up, with that determined manner that he gets sometimes. “Is it worth it?”

That’s the question, isn’t it? “I’ve already made that decision,” she says quietly. “Have you?”

Harry glances away, snorts a laugh. “Yeah. A while ago. What do you need from me?”

“Just your support,” she says, leaning back. “You asked for mine last year in proving that you deserve some standing in this House, and you earned that standing. People still… watch you, Harry, you know that?”

“I know.” He flexes his hands, restless, and looks down at them—at the scars on the back of his left hand, she thinks. “I wish they wouldn’t, but I’m resigned at this point, I guess.”

“You have power,” Gemma says, and reaches out to touch the back of his hand. “Use it.”

“I will.” He draws his hand away though, and she’s not quite sure what to think of that, or of the look in his eye. “Now?”

“Now,” she says. “No point in delaying; I need to know what sort of force I have so that I can make plans.”

He nods, glances around the common room, then says, “Wait.”

“What?”

Harry nods across the room—Malfoy is sitting there, watching them with a sneer on his face. When he sees they’ve noticed them, he leans over and makes some sort of derisive comment to Parkinson, seated beside him, which makes her giggle.

“He’ll try to stop you,” Harry says.

Gemma snorts. “More power to him.” She stands, then, and stretches, then wanders across the common room. Ayesha is sitting with Cassius, their heads bent together over a Divination text, and she makes a beeline for them, bending to kiss the top of Ayesha’s head when she gets there.

“Hello,” Ayesha says, turning her face up for a proper kiss, which Gemma happily grants. “Done plotting with Potter?”

“For now.” Gemma places a hand on Ayesha’s shoulder, squeezes a little. “I’m going to do something stupid now, I think.”

“Oh, lovely,” Ayesha says with a sigh.

“What sort of stupid?” Cassius asks idly, turning a page of the book. He makes a noise and then a note on his parchment, and then looks up askance at Gemma.

“The Harry Potter kind,” she says, stoops to kiss Ayesha’s cheek once more, and then turns to the rest of the room. She brings up her wand and casts a low-level Amplification Charm, then says, “Excuse me, everyone—House meeting, please. _”_

A few people jump, not expecting it, but others, she thinks, were watching: they’d seen her with her head bent together with Harry’s and come to the obvious conclusion that _something_ was going on.

Gemma goes to stand by the fireplace to wait as people gather, absently tightens her ponytail and then tucks her wand safely back up her sleeve. It doesn’t take long for most of the House to come together, and that’s good enough for her—she clears her throat and says, “I’ve a bit of news.”

“About the Hufflepuffs?” asks one of the fifth years. “They were missing from class again today.”

Gemma nods. “They’ve barricaded themselves in their common room, apparently. The Aurors are making plans to try to crack that particular nut, but I have no intention of letting them. This insanity has gone on long enough, escalated far enough, and I plan to do something about it.”

There are a few smiles, a few frowns—but Gemma thinks the crowd is with her. “We aren’t criminals,” she says. “We aren’t trained users of black magic… so we don’t have the strength as individuals to take on the Aurors, and we shouldn’t _have_ to. They have no right to be treating us this way— _us_! Some of us are the scions of the most powerful families in the world, and we’re being treated like prisoners. It’s shameful.

“As Slytherins, each of us knows the importance of defending ourselves and our honour, and if we sit by and let them pretend that we’re nothing but _children_ who don’t know anything, not even our own rights, we are allowing ourselves to be dishonoured.” Gemma clenches her fists, looks around and meets eyes all around the room: purebloods and halfbloods and even a few muggleborns, and where she makes eye contact she sees the fire of Slytherin pride light in each of them. They all know what they are, each and every one. “It _will not_ go on. Tomorrow night, I propose we make our move to end this, once and for all, and show this school and that _woman_ up there what Slytherin is really made of. They think we’re cowards, that we’ll protect ourselves even at the cost of our pride and our honour, but that is not the truth. To stand up now for who we _are_ ,” she slams a hand against her own chest, vehement, “ _is_ protecting ourselves. It’s not self-interest to lie down and roll over like a dog. It’s not cleverness to bend to unjust power. It’s not ambition to let an insult go just because it’s _easier_. We are not Gryffindors, and this is not about bravery: this is about _power_ , and it has been _taken_ from us. I say we take it back.”

There’s a cheer from the crowd, the voices of her friends carrying loudest above the rest of the House, and she sees Harry step forward, pushing past people to come into the semi-circle that had formed around Gemma as she spoke. He looks at her, determined like he was before, and he says, “I’m with you.”

“Me too,” Terence says, standing up. He looks around, glares. “We _all_ should be with you.”

“Aye,” Cassius agrees, stepping forward as well—and then another, and another, until most of the House is crowding close, shoulder-to-shoulder. Some come close and clasp Gemma’s hand or her arm; another seventh year ruffles her hair until she can bat him away, scowling.

Ayesha slips through the crowd to press a kiss to Gemma’s cheek and whisper, “Malfoy’s gone.”

“Good riddance,” Gemma replies—he’s probably going to be trouble, but she has other things to worry about right now, like marshalling an entire House for an attack on the Auror force.

It takes hours of planning, people passing ideas around the common room, speculating. They need to attack soon, because if they let it go the Aurors might break into Hufflepuff and their window of opportunity will close. Terence starts of list of people’s best magics, starts organizing groups to fight together who can cover one another’s weaknesses, assigns some people to stay back and hold shields and others with better accuracy to fling Stunners should it break into a pitched battle. The first years practice their tripping jinxes and flinging sparks for distractions.

The main issue, Gemma thinks, will be getting away from their _own_ Aurors: but she has an idea about that, and when she shares it with the core group doing the planning—the members of the DA, with the addition of Harry and Cassius—they agree. When they all finally make it to their beds that night, Gemma feels more or less like they have a plan that will work. It’s still dependent on factors outside of her control, of course, and Harry had said, before they’d all split, that _No plan survives first contact with the enemy._

“Studying strategy with Lord Black?” Terence had asked, amused.

“Yeah,” Harry had said, and met his eyes squarely. “It seemed like a good idea.”

There had been a moment of grim silence, as everyone remembered that this private war they were about to fight was nothing to the one going on outside the walls. But that was a concern for another day: tonight, Gemma needs to sleep and be ready, because tomorrow they _are_ going to break this occupation, and Umbridge, and reclaim their school for good.

The next day is a Saturday, convenient because the House is confined to their common room and thus able to continue to plan between meals. They are escorted down to the Great Hall en masse for breakfast and then again for lunch, and it is in the hours after lunch that Gemma gathers everyone again and says, “When we head out for dinner, we make our move.”

Everyone nods, a few voicing agreement out loud, and then they disperse again. By now, everyone knows their role, and there’s no more time to practice except as individuals. Gemma looks around at her Housemates, from the youngest to the oldest, and sighs.

A hand slips into hers, and she looks down at Ayesha. “Ready, Aya?” she asks quietly.

Ayesha nods. “As I’ll ever be, I should think. You know this isn’t exactly my… area.”

“I know. Thank you for joining me anyway.”

Ayesha gives her a quelling look. “You know my feelings about the war, but even in that, I’m not going to leave you _alone_ , Gem.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.” Ayesha leans into her side, just briefly, then says, “I think Potter wants to talk to you.”

“Okay.” Gemma leans down and kisses her girlfriend’s forehead through the fabric of her hijab, then lets her go to go find Harry. He’s sitting with Zabini, Bulstrode, and Nott, involved in what looks to be a serious conversation, but he looks up when she approaches.

“Harry,” she says, nodding to his friends. “Ayesha said you wanted me.”

“Yeah.” He gets up, then glances back at Nott. “Theo, it’s really okay—I swear.”

Nott sighs. “You’re my friend, you have to say that. Look, Farley, I can’t… come along. I’m sorry.”

“Oh,” Gemma says, blinking, then waves him away. “It’s fine, Nott, I understand. You’re not the only one in that sort of position.”

“Higgs is going to be cursing his own bloody cousin, but I’m too much of a coward to fight at all,” Nott mutters.

Gemma shakes her head immediately, and sits down for a moment in the chair Harry had just vacated to meet his eyes properly. “There’s no shame in it,” she says. “I talked a big game last night, about how we have to fight to protect our honour, and I still think that’s true. That said, some of us are more vulnerable than others, and if you need to step back, I understand. Stay safe.”

He swallows hard and then looks down. Merlin, he’s _so_ young—but so is Harry. So are they _all_. So she just reaches forward and clasps his shoulder briefly, ignores the slight flinch, and says, “It’s okay. Harry was right—no one will begrudge you.”

“ _I’ll_ begrudge me,” Nott says, but he nods and waves her off. “Go talk to Harry.”

“Alright.” Gemma gets up, turns to Harry. “What is it?”

“Um, come over here for a second?” Harry says. He’s got a bit of a shifty look about him, and curiosity sparks; she follows him over to a quiet corner, far enough from anyone else that they shouldn’t be overheard.

“What is it?” she asks.

“Listen, I’ve got—something that might help.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded scrap of parchment. “You asked me earlier how I knew about some of the hidden passages. This is how.” A flick and his wand appears in his hand—she really need to get herself one of those holsters—and he presses the tip to the parchment. “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

Ink unspools around the tip of his wand, rapidly forming lines and letters, and then a grand bit of calligraphy reading, _Messers Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs present: The Marauder’s Map_.

“What is this?” Gemma asks, taking it from Harry’s hands when he offers it. She unfolds it, and finds that it’s… it’s a map of Hogwarts, more accurate and detailed than any she’s ever seen. And it’s _moving_ : staircases in the central hall shift under her fingertips, and she can see—wait. She unfolds a few leaves of parchment, looking for the map of the dungeons, and finds the Slytherin common room. There, in the corner: two sets of footsteps, close to one another, labelled _Gemma Farley_ and _Harry Potter_. “Stars and small gods,” she gasps. “Merlin—Harry, this is…”

“Yeah,” he says. “Here.” He rearranges the fold again, revealing the ground floor and the mezzanine level where the Hufflepuff common room entrance is. Gathered outside are a cluster of footprints, labelled with mostly unfamiliar names: the Aurors. And then he points down the hall from them a little ways, opposite the direction of the main stairs up from the dungeon level. Off of the main hall, there’s a small branching path etched in grey ink, and he says, “There’s a hidden passageway here. It’s narrow, not a good idea to send _everyone_ this way, but we could send a… a strike force, I guess.”

“A pincer movement,” Gemma murmurs. She studies the layout for a moment—it’s nearly perfect. Then she glances up, meets his eyes. “Will you lead the smaller group?”

He blinks, taken aback. “ _Me_?”

She nods and presses the Map back into his hands. “You’re a good duellist, Harry—I mean, I’ve never seen you duel, but I’ve seen you cast and I know what your reflexes are like. And this was _your_ idea. You should lead them.”

Harry runs a hand through his hair, mussing it further, and says, “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

He taps his wand to the Map again, murmurs, “Mischief managed,” then says, “Okay. I’ll do it. Who am I taking?”

Gemma thinks, then gives him half a dozen names, including Bulstrode and Zabini—better he go with people he trusts. “Come in hard and fast,” she says. “Try to push through and rejoin the group.”

He nods. “Alright. And, Gemma—if I disappear, don’t worry. Sirius taught me some tricks. If things go wrong, I’ll try to get out and rally help from the other Houses.”

“Okay.” Not a bad plan. “But things aren’t going to go wrong.”

“Sure, sure.” Harry grins a little. “But, didn’t I say it last night? No plan—“

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” she waves him off. “Bugger off, you brat. I’ll go tell the others they’re with you, you go tell your friends, and we’ll get ready.”

He nods again and returns to his little group, and she goes around, checking in on everyone, making sure they all know where they’re supposed to be. Most everyone does, to her relief, and she goes to sit down and curl into Ayesha’s side a little and try to settle her mind before the time comes. It’s going to be okay, she reminds herself: they don’t have the _whole_ House with them, but they’ve got a good two thirds, maybe three quarters, and that means they’ll outnumber the Aurors trying to get into Hufflepuff at least two to one.

At ten minutes to six, one of the Aurors assigned to Slytherin House—an Edgecombe, Gemma thinks, though she’s not entirely sure—pops their head into the common room and says, “Let’s go, everyone.”

They aren’t Gryffindors; no one makes a production about setting down whatever they’re doing and gathering at the door, a few running down to the dorms to gather anyone who’d gone back to their rooms. They just get it done, grouping up in an orderly fashion and beginning to file out into the hall. As usual, there are three Aurors outside waiting to form the remainder of their escort, and they keep an eye on everyone until the entire House has trickled out, then form up into a column, two Aurors at the front and two at the back.

Gemma resists the urge to hold her breath as they begin walking. It would do more harm than good, and anyway, she just needs to wait a few seconds until they reach—the turn in the hallway. _Now_. She brings her fingers to her lips, pulling her wand with the other hand at the same time as she whistles. Ready, those whose job this first part is whip out their wands and send Stunners flying at the Aurors. Hers and Terence’s strike true, taking out the two Aurors at the front, and she hears another thump from the back of the column; the fourth manages to dodge, she assumes, because there’s a shout. She whirls, but it’s over quickly; someone else manages a strong Disarming Charm and the fourth Auror’s wand goes flying, and a _Petrificus Totalus_ finishes that job.

“Good work,” Gemma calls. “Now, we don’t have much time. Those of you not joining us, back to the common room, and seal the door best you can, just in case.”

As expected, about twenty people scurry off, including Malfoy and his goons, to her relief. Maybe he’d decided that he couldn’t take all of them, or maybe he’d actually come to his senses. Still, that leaves more than forty Slytherins, all of them eager and ready. “Let’s go,” Gemma says. A quiet cheer rises around her, and they _go_.

* * *

Harry takes his small strike force around via the secret passage, as planned, and hits the Aurors from the back, as planned, and they actually manage to take most of them out, more or less as planned. And then the plan falls apart, because Malfoy comes up behind Gemma and the rest of the main body of the Slytherins with Crabbe and Goyle and Parkinson and a few others, and stuns Terence, Warrington, Gemma herself, and several of the other strong duellists before anyone can react. The Aurors regroup in what feels like a split second, though realistically Harry thinks it was just a confused two minutes or so, and they roll up the rest of the Slytherins quickly.

It’s around that time—unfortunately—that the Hufflepuffs get a clue that there’s a battle going on outside and burst out to try to help. If they’d made their move even thirty seconds earlier, there’d still have been Slytherins on their feet and not disarmed and bound to one another with conjured ropes, and things might have turned. As it is, they’re sitting ducks, trapped in the bottle neck of their common room entrance, and the Aurors take out the first wave in a moment, then push in and capture the rest of them. It’s over very, very fast.

Harry, tied to Blaise, sighs.

“That could have gone better,” Blaise says, sounding somewhat out of breath. They’re back-to-back, so Harry can’t see his face, but he can imagine his expression.

“Yeah,” Harry says. “We _almost_ had them.”

“Malfoy’s going to pay for this.” Blaise sounds almost meditative. He never _sounds_ angry, really, but Harry can feel the tension in his spine where their backs are pressed together. “I’m going to curse that little prig impotent, I swear.”

“Get in line,” Harry says. He twitches a shoulder over in the direction of some of the others, lying in a heap. Gemma was there, the last time he’d seen her. “Can you see Gemma?”

Harry feels Blaise shake his head. “No,” he says, after a second. “I saw her take a Stunner, though. She’s probably at the bottom of the pile, hopefully not having broken her pretty face when she hit the floor.”

“Damn,” Harry mutters. “Alright.”

“Got a plan?”

“It’ll depend what they do with us now,” Harry says, shrugging as best he can. “I’ve got some thoughts.”

“You always do,” Blaise says. He jerks his own shoulder, over in a direction that Harry can’t really see from where he’s sitting. “The Aurors are arguing about what to do next, I think.”

“Are Kingsley or Tonks there?” Harry had recognized them both on the first day, though they’d been assigned to Gryffindor, so he’d had no chance to talk to either of them. Potential allies, but only if he can _get_ to them.

“Tonks is the one with the hair, right?”

“Yeah.” He hadn’t spotted her in the crowd, but she was pretty short, and the melee had been intense. Hogwarts’s halls aren’t very wide, as it turns out.

“She’s there. Arguing with… I think that’s one of the elder Warringtons.” Blaise’s knowledge of the who’s-who of magical society is much broader and more reliable than Harry’s, as always. “I think she’s trying to get him to be lenient with us—she’s one of the ones I saw pulling her punches.”

Pulling—wow. Harry hadn’t noticed anything of the kind; he’d been a bit busy with _see red robes, hex red robes_. But Blaise is observant, good with people; he’ll take his word for it. “Okay,” he says softly. “That’s good to know.”

“She’s your cousin, right?”

Harry nods. “Her mum is Sirius’s cousin; her dad was Heir Black before me.”

“Right. Andromeda Tonks, nee Black.”

“How am I not surprised you know that?” Harry asks, amused.

“You’ll know it all too, eventually,” Blaise says, sounding surprisingly confident. “I’ve just got about ten extra years of learning it on you.”

“I guess that’s true.”

Loudly, from the direction of the Aurors, someone says, “Enough with this foolish bickering! We need to speak to Madame Umbridge about this either way, and we can’t leave these miscreants here. We’ll bring ‘em all to the hall, and if she wants an example made, we _make_ it. She’s Senior Undersecretary, which means this is her decision, not ours.”

“We don’t answer to the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister,” Tonks argues back, her familiar strident voice rising. “We don’t even answer to the Headmaster of Hogwarts. We answer to the Head Auror and to Madame Bones and to the Minister. Unless Umbridge became _Minister_ —“

“I don’t care if you don’t like her, Tonks; she’s in charge. Now get these kids on their feet, we’re going.”

Whoever’s yelling at Tonks is clearly senior enough that she feels she has to listen, no matter her personal feelings. There are the sounds of movement, and then someone says, “ _Levicorpus_.” The magic catches Harry and Blaise, lifting them, and whatever Auror is holding them begins walking down the hall. Harry can see other groups of students tied together being levitated; others are being marched at wand-point by the Aurors.

“We _can_ walk, you know,” Blaise says to the Auror levitating them, annoyed.

“Maybe you can,” the Auror replies, “but I saw Potter move in that fight. The second I put him down he’s going to be gone, and then it’ll be _my_ neck. Sorry, kid.”

Harry scowls. The Auror, whoever he is, is right, which is really the whole problem. If he could get free, he’d probably be able to warn everyone. As it is, his hands are stuck at his sides, and he’s lost his holly wand. He has his rowan wand too, of course, but he can’t get to it bound like this.

“Fine,” Blaise sighs, and then whispers to Harry, “I tried.”

“S’okay,” Harry whispers back. “We’ll be fine.”

And they will be. Just… how is the question. For now, he’s stuck mostly staring at the wall as they move, the other Slytherins and most of Hufflepuff trailing along raggedly behind. He can crane his neck back to get a sense of who’s with them, and does so: some of the Hufflepuffs were left behind, Stunned or otherwise hexed unconscious or immobile, with a pair of Aurors watching over them. All the Slytherins who had participated in the attack have been brought along as best as he can tell though, including those still unconscious. He doesn’t feel like that’s a particularly good sign.

At least it’s a short distance from the Hufflepuff common room to the Great Hall. When they arrive, an Auror thrusts the doors open; Harry hears them slam against the walls with a bang, and the low level of conversation in the Hall slowly fall quiet as they’re all set down in the empty space at the far end of the room. He turns his head so that he can see, and almost immediately his eyes fall on Neville, sitting near the far end of the Gryffindor table with Hermione and the assembled Weasleys—maybe they’d been plotting. Right now, however, they just look stunned, and he grins sheepishly at them.

“ _What_ is going on here?” Umbridge demands, and Harry cranes his neck further to see her rising from the staff table, her face rapidly purpling with rage.

“Madame Umbridge,” an Auror—the mean one, who’d told Tonks off—says, stepping forward. He’s a tall man with blond hair, starting to go grey a little at the temples. “These Slytherins attempted to assault the Aurors working to breach the Hufflepuff common room.”

“They _what_?” Umbridge says, her voice rising almost to a shriek. “Ridiculous! Intolerable! Auror Ambrus, who were the ringleaders of this attack?”

“Best I can tell, Miss Farley and Mister Potter,” he says. “They led two separate groups in a pincer attack—honestly, if it weren’t so outrageous I’d be impressed, but of course we took handy care of them.”

Harry’s not going to let _that_ stand. “We nearly had you, actually,” he interjects loudly. “We had at least half the Aurors on the ground and were going to have the rest, but Malfoy swooped in and stabbed us in the back. We had you on the ropes and you _know_ it.”

The Auror turns around and grits his teeth. “Keep your mouth shut, Potter, or you’ll get worse than you’ve already earned yourself.”

“No, don’t think I will,” Harry says. “Maybe you beat us, but it was closer than you’re willing to admit, because you know that if everyone in this Hall stood up and took out their wands right now you’d have not a bloody chance of beating us. Hogwarts united is a stronger force than a bunch of Aurors—Hogwarts united is a stronger force than _anything_.”

“You know, Gred,” says another voice, and Harry’s face splits in a grin. “He’s right.”

George replies, “I agree, Forge. I think we’d best reinforce our dear Snake Prince’s point.”

“Oh, definitely.”

And then everything _explodes_. There’s a massive crack of light and sound, and Harry flinches down from the bloody _fireworks_ suddenly going off in the vaulted roof of the Great Hall, a little too close and a little too loud—he can feel the heat of the magical flares. People scream, and benches scrape across the floor; he can hear Aurors shouting, swearing, and then casting hexes and charms, trying to get the room under control. Everything spirals into chaos rapidly despite their efforts. Harry just keeps his head down, hoping not to get cursed.

Then the ropes around him and Blaise loosen. He doesn’t hesitate, jumping up and shaking them off. Fortunately they’re still near the entrance of the Hall, so he presses his back to the wall and taps his leg, calling his rowan wand out of its hidden holster into his hand, and looks around.

Students are leaping up from the tables all across the Hall, pulling wands and starting to cast every hex and jinx they know at the Aurors, who are doing what they can to shield themselves and return fire, but there’s just _so much_ spell fire coming down on them. Harry glances at the Slytherins—someone’s loosed about half of them, and he bends his will: _Finite Incantatem_ , and those still stuck in body binds are abruptly free. Then he raises his wand, pictures the wands collected from the Slytherins and Hufflepuffs as clearly as he can in the middle of all of this _everything_ , and shouts, “Accio wands!”

Then he ducks reflexively as a good sixty wands come flying at him out of the pockets of the Aurors around him. They all clatter harmlessly to the floor at his feet, fortunately, but there’d been a moment—well. “Here!” he calls, and darts out of the way as Slytherins and Hufflepuffs, those still conscious, head in that direction, claiming their own wands and those they recognize as belonging to their friends, arming themselves rapidly.

In the centre of the Great Hall, there’s a whoop and then a massive cloud of blackness erupts, instant night filling the centre of the room. Harry blinks, sees a spark out of the corner of his eye, and ducks a Stunner. He fires back on instinct—“ _Expelliarmus!”—_ and catches the wand that comes flying at him, then stuns the surprised Auror. He dives into the melee, flinging spells and dodging them—he’s not much good with a quick Protego just yet, not one that’ll stand up, but he’s small and fast. He’s a bit out of shape, but his Seeker training from last year combined with Sirius’s duelling practice holds him in good stead. He hits an Auror in the back with a _Stupefy_ and then stumbles when a Tripping Jinx catches him around the ankles; the next second, an _Incarcerous_ wraps around him and he topples over, his glasses flying off his face.

“Bugger!” he says, squinting; whatever Auror had got him doesn’t stick around, though, leaving him where he lies.

There’s a tense moment where he’s sure that either he or his glasses—lying a few centimetres away from his face, just out of reach—are about to get stepped on, but neither does. Instead, someone behind him says, “ _Relashio,”_ and the ropes around him loosen. He twists, scoops up his glasses and shoves them back on his face, and then looks up to see Hermione standing over him, her wand out.

“Thanks,” he says.

“No problem, Harry,” she replies. “How’ve you been?”

“Oh, you know,” he says. “Same old, same old.”

There’s a beat, and then Hermione has to duck an errant hex. They both laugh, and Harry rolls up to his feet and says, “Nice moves.”

“Well, the DA has practiced dodging a lot.” She shrugs. “Last year, Professor Black said—“

“Never shield when you can move,” Harry choruses with her, grinning. “I know, he’s drilled that one into me, too. Maybe someone should tell some of these Aurors that.”

“Honestly,” Hermione says. She sounds exasperated. “Even being so outnumbered, we should _not_ be winning.”

But they are—around them, things are beginning to calm as Aurors fall to Stunners, Incarceration Charms, and Disarming Charms. One has had his hands transfigured into flippers by an enterprising upper-year, and another is tied up with his own clothing. It’s not over yet, though, so Harry says, “No. But we’ve got some work to do yet.”

Hermione nods once decisively, and they part ways, ducking back into the fray. Harry disarms another few Aurors— _Expelliarmus_ comes easily to him, more than more other offensive spells, so he sticks to that, and it opens windows for other students to hex their suddenly-vulnerable opponents. None of the Aurors really seem prepared to be fighting children; a lot of spells go high, others fizzling for lack of will. At one point, Harry spots an Auror cornered by a half-dozen first and second years just sigh and drop their wand, then put their hands up. The next second, they’ve got several eleven-year-olds literally sitting on them, because—and Harry really should have expected this—the firsties don’t know _Incarcerous_ or _Stupefy_ , and really what they’re doing is just as effective in any case.

Then he sees a flash of red fabric in the corner of his vision and turns, his wand coming up, to find that he’s aiming at Tonks. She’s aiming back, frozen, and they stare each other down for a moment before she sighs, lowers her wand, and says, “Just stun me.”

Harry snorts. “If you give me your wand and go join your colleague I’ll let you go without the stun headache, if you want,” he says, gesturing at the Auror with the first years sitting on them.

“Oh, much better,” she says, suddenly more cheerful; her hair changes from a dark red to more familiar bubblegum pink. She walks over to hand Harry her wand, then pats him on the shoulder. “Thanks, Harry.”

“No problem, Tonks.” Then she ruffles his hair, and leaving him scowling goes to sit down with her colleague; almost immediately she gets dogpiled as well, and flops down laughing.

Harry looks around again and finds that the action has now finally begun to die down; Tonks was one of the last Aurors in his field of vision, and there’s only one other remaining bit of ongoing spellfire, near the front of the room. Harry heads that way, and finds himself joined by Blaise, who has his own wand back in hand.

“Alright, Harry?” Blaise asks as they weave between people.

“Yeah,” Harry says. “You?”

“I’m good.” Blaise reaches over and offers something; Harry glances down to find that it’s his holly wand. “Forgetting something?”

“Oh.” Sheepish, Harry stows the rowan wand and takes his primary wand back. “Thanks.”

“I didn’t realize you had a second wand.”

“Family heirloom.” Technically true.

“Right,” Blaise says, smirking. “You’re lucky most people don’t know what your wand looks like well enough to catch that, my friend.”

“And that I have friends to keep my secrets,” Harry says. He glances over at Blaise, in time to see his smirk soften into a more genuine smile.

“That too.”

“C’mon,” Harry says, and pushes through the last line of people holding them back from the remaining bit of action, his wand held ready. The final battle still ongoing is a rapid duel: one of the Aurors against the combined spell-power of an unlikely duo, consisting of none other than Professor Sprout and Gemma Farley. Sprout isn’t as quick as some of the other duellists Harry’s seen, maybe not even as quick as Harry himself, but her shields are durable and she keeps them steady, making it possible for Gemma to duck in and out and fire hexes rapidly without taking any herself. The Auror—Harry thinks it’s the one called Dawlish—is being forced back, is tiring, and Harry lets his wand fall to his side. Gemma and the professor have him well-handled, as is proved a moment later when Gemma flings a Stunner, and in the brief second Dawlish takes to deflect, Sprout drops her shield and disarms him. He seems about to try something to recover his wand, which goes clattering across the floor behind him, but then looks to his right and sees the crowd watching, students massed with wands in hand. Slowly, he raises his hands above his head, and a moment later is struck with a _Petrificus Totalus_ and topples over, still.

“Well,” says Professor Sprout, sounding slightly winded. “That was refreshing! Thank you, Miss Farley, you are an excellent partner.”

“You’re not so bad yourself, Professor Sprout,” Gemma says, and bows.

Around them, the Hall erupts into cheers and laughter, students grabbing one another in hugs and slapping their friends on the back. Even Blaise, usually lackadaisical, is caught up, and snags Harry in a hard hug before yelling, “I’m going to find Theo!” and vanishing into the crowd.

Harry spins a little when Blaise lets him go, dizzy with sudden relief. It’s over. He doesn’t know where Umbridge is, and doesn’t _care_. It doesn’t matter at all, because her power is broken. None of them are going to be cowed any more, not by anything; they’ve seen the worst that she could think of and they’ve _won_.

Not quite sure what to do with himself, Harry shoves past a few people and goes to collapse down onto the steps up to the dais where the Professor’s table sits. He pulls his knees up and watches the people celebrating: couples kissing one another, friends hugging, everyone yelling and cheering. At the opposite end of the hall, someone—probably one of the twins—lets off another firework, and the crack makes everyone flinch before a laugh ripples across the room. There’s still a massive cloud of Darkness Powder hanging in the air over to the left. It’s… happy.

Harry clenches his left hand, feels the skin pull against the still-fresh scars. He’s happy, he tells himself. This is a victory; this is a _triumph_. Today is for celebrating. So he takes a deep breath and hauls himself back up, and goes to find Neville. He’s missed his friend, these past few months, and he thinks it’s about time they caught up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YAY!


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, at the end of the year and the end of this book.
> 
> It's been... well. It has been A Time. I hope everyone enjoyed this fic, at least, and that it brought some laughter (or cathartic tears/Stress But The Fun Kind) this year. I am still working on Year Four, and it'll be a while before it's done, but I'll be here and reachable in the comments as always.
> 
> I hope everyone enjoys this chapter. Thank you all for reading, and I'll see you next year!

Minister Fudge doesn’t put up much of a fight when a collective letter signed  _ The Student Body of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the Undersigned, _ followed by several sheets’ worth of individual signatures, arrives at the Ministry. Only a few students abstain from signing the letter, and at this point it doesn’t much matter. The students, under the leadership of Gemma Farley, Cedric Diggory, Penelope Clearwater, and Percy Weasley have taken control of the school and ‘forced’ (that is, asked politely) the professors to raise the wards. No one would be getting in  _ or out _ until the Ministry acceded to their demands.

Not that they had demanded anything unreasonable. They wanted Umbridge  _ out _ , once and for all; an agreement that the Ministry never again try to seize control of the castle unless there were an  _ actual _ criminal involved; and the reinstatement of Dumbledore as Headmaster. They wanted a return to what Hogwarts was meant to be: a school, a place of learning, not an attempted breeding ground for indoctrination. And Fudge had folded, swift and quiet. The papers hadn’t printed a single word about the Hogwarts Rebellion, which frankly suited most of them just fine.

“Not a surprise that they covered it up,” Theo says to Harry, a few days after Dumbledore made his triumphant return to his regular seat. Umbridge’s Educational Decrees had vanished from the wall overnight, and that same morning, their  _ proper _ Headmaster had been smiling at them over breakfast as though nothing had happened at all every morning since.

“The Ministry’s specialty,” Harry snorts, and shoves a bite of egg into his mouth before he can say anything even  _ more _ derisive.

Blaise and Theo laugh, at least, and Blaise reaches over to pat Harry’s shoulder. “I suppose you must feel quite vindicated.”

Harry shrugs. “More relieved than anything, really. Umbridge was  _ awful _ .”

Theo glances down at Harry’s hand—he’d stopped wrapping it, stopped pretending that the scars were anything but there, a while ago. “More so to you than to anyone else. You’re a stronger man than I, Harry.”

“I just know what’s right,” Harry says. “It’s easier to stick to what you know when you know that what you know is the  _ truth _ , if that… makes sense.”

“Could’ve been put more gracefully,” Blaise snorts, “but yes, that made sense.”

“Graceful’s your bag, Zabini,” Harry says, and reaches over to flick the carefully coifed swoop of fringe that Blaise has falling artfully across his forehead this morning. Blaise recoils, of course, and swats his hand away with a protesting noise, eliciting a laugh from Theo.

“Watch who you’re calling graceful, Potter,” Blaise says. “People are going to start thinking you’ve got a  _ crush _ .”

“Oh, bugger off,” Harry says, rolling his eyes. “You’re not my type.”

“Ooh,” Theo says, “he’s got a  _ type _ now.” 

The two fall into teasing, ganging up on Harry as they tend to do, and he just rolls his eyes and fends them off. It’s a normal morning, peaceful, and all’s right in the world. He shoots a glance past Theo’s shoulder toward the Gryffindor table just in time to catch Hermione’s eye; Neville and Ron are seated with their backs to him today, but she shoots him a quick smile before returning to the book she’s brought to breakfast with her. Exams are looming, and everyone’s studying extra hard, of course. Harry himself isn’t particularly worried—they’d had so much time shut inside that he’d actually gotten  _ ahead _ on schoolwork for once. The insanity of the first term, of all of the school year right up until the beginning of March when he’d finally completed Voldemort’s task, had made schoolwork seem like five times the burden, but with the extra weight lifted his usual course load felt light as a feather. He’s confident he’ll do well on his exams and be able to return home for the summer with his head held high.

Which, speaking of—above them, the hooting of owls announces the arrival of the post, and Harry catches a glimpse of Hedwig’s familiar white plumage among the more standard browns and greys. She heads straight for him, as always, and lands neatly on his upraised arm; his wand holster acts handily as a falconer’s brace, he’s found. She has a letter tied to his leg and he relieves her of her burden before feeding her a few nibbles of bacon, before stroking her feathery head a few times and receiving a soft affectionate tap of her beak.

“Your owl is really stunning,” Theo says, watching them. “Not sure I’ve ever said that, Harry.”

Harry smiles. “She’s great. Don’t know what I’d do without her—huh, girl?”

Hedwig chirps at him, and not for the first time he wonders how much she understands—post owls are magical animals, or so Hagrid told them in Care this year, and they’re smarter than regular owls. And Hedwig has always seemed  _ particularly _ smart. On Harry’s arm, Hedwig flutters her wings restlessly, and he says, “Right, you probably want to go sleep. Off you go, girl.” A lift of his arm is enough to launch her, and she takes to the air with the odd silence of owl-flight, swooping away toward the owlery and leaving Harry to attend to his mail.

The outside of the letter has a mark stamped onto it that he recognizes as the emblem of the owl-post office where Sirius maintains a post-box for Harry. They’d set it up as a way for Harry to begin getting used to the ways and means of life as a Lord and a professional in the magical world—right now, however, the only person who ever writes him at that address is Marigold Dunbar, and she doesn’t get in touch often. Still, maybe she’d heard from Fay, Harry thinks, and slits the unmarked wax seal on the letter.

The handwriting isn’t Marigold Dunbar’s, however. Instead, it’s an elegant but formal, slanting hand that he’s never seen before. Frowning, Harry reads,  _ Heir Black, _

_ I hope you do not consider this letter rude, given how slight our acquaintance has been thus far and given the recent offences of my son against your person— _

Harry stops reading there and skims to the bottom of the letter. It’s signed  _ Lord Lucius Malfoy, House Malfoy _ . He folds the letter again immediately and glances over to his right, then thinks,  _ Damn _ . Blaise is watching.

“That’s Lord Malfoy’s handwriting,” he says in an undertone—not quietly enough that Theo doesn’t immediately shift forward, tense.

“I know,” Harry says, and tucks the letter away into his pocket.

“What’s going on?” Theo says.

“Nothing,” Harry says. He gets up from the table, leaving behind his breakfast half-eaten, and begins to walk away.

He hears a scuff behind him and then, “Harry!” A glance over his shoulder shows that Blaise has stood hurriedly and is clambering over the bench. He approaches and grabs Harry’s arm firmly, leaning in close. They’ve got to be attracting attention. “What’s going on?” Blaise repeats, more of a demand than Theo’s question had been.

“I said it’s nothing,” Harry says. He should be playing this more calmly—he should have an excuse, something, anything. But his mind is blank. He’d… almost forgotten, somehow. Isolated from the world by Umbridge, cut off from contact, separate from Dumbledore and even from Snape for the most part, only talking to Sirius about the efforts of the Light and having the  _ luxury _ to forget all the things he shouldn’t know about the inner workings of the Dark.

But the time is coming. War is here, upon them; people are dying outside of Hogwarts’ walls, the numbers in the papers adding up every day, and Harry has a job to do. A role to play. He needs to play it now. So he shrugs off Blaise’s hand.

“Harry—“ Blaise starts, but Harry cuts him off with a shake of his head.

“It’s none of your business,” he says, low and sharp, and then he turns and walks away, leaving the Hall—the eyes there, resting on his back—behind.

It’s not hard to find a private corner to read the letter; nowadays he carries his Cloak with him all the time, so he simply needs to slide it over his head and tuck himself away where no one will stumble over him. Lucius Malfoy makes a vague apology for Draco’s  _ rudeness _ , as he calls it, says that his son will be receiving a lesson this summer in  _ real power _ and that he hopes Harry hasn’t taken offence too deeply at  _ juvenile rivalries _ . Strange. Stranger still, the offer later in the letter to come visit Malfoy Manor during the summer: on the solstice, in fact. A year since the first Death Eater meeting Harry had been summoned to, and he can read the second summons between the lines here. As he gets to the end, he wonders if these are Lord Malfoy’s words at all, or if they’re Voldemort’s under thin disguise. Impossible to know.

What he does know is that he can’t say no to the orders implied here, and that means that he needs to talk to Snape… and to Dumbledore, who he’s not had a chance to speak to since before the meeting on the first of March.

Dumbledore first, Harry decides in a split second. He knows Snape better, but he knows Dumbledore’s  _ motives _ better, and that makes him more trustworthy. So he tucks the letter away again and, still hidden under his Cloak, makes for the Headmaster’s office. By now, breakfast will be over, Dumbledore back in his office. Fortunately, he doesn’t have to hesitate in front of the gargoyle for long, despite not knowing the current password; as soon as he pulls off the Cloak it moves to the side and allows him to hop onto the rising staircase. It’s a struggle not to tap his toe as it moves, and he shoves through the door without knocking as soon as the staircase comes to a rest.

“Mr. Potter,” Dumbledore says, seated behind his desk as always. “I’m glad to see you in good health. How have you been, my boy?”

“Fine,” Harry says, and strides forward to slap the letter down onto Dumbledore’s desk. “I’ve got some things to tell you, sir.”

“Please,” Dumbledore says. A wave of the Headmaster’s hand has a chair scooting forward across the room to nudge up behind Harry’s knees, and he obeys the implicit order to sit. “Tell me everything.”

Harry takes a deep breath, and starts with Voldemort’s task and Harry’s completion of it. He knows Dumbledore knows  _ something _ , but he doesn’t know what, so he only says as much as having been ordered to find the Chamber of Secrets and that he’d found it and left the diary there. Dumbledore interrupts there for the first time; he asks, “Did you meet any sort of creature there, Harry?”

“No,” Harry says, not sure why he’s lying, but it feels like the right thing to do. “If there were a monster there before, sir, wouldn’t it be very old?”

“Indeed,” Dumbledore says, and glances at Fawkes on his perch before he says, “though that does not preclude its continued existence. Still, I am glad you are unharmed. Go on—you left the diary?”

“Yeah, just sort of… lying there. And then—“ Harry carries on, telling him about the meeting. He’s open about his Parseltongue, about Voldemort’s strange interest in his opinions. He leaves out mention of the family magic—in his opinion, that’s not Dumbledore’s business—but does mention that he’d had a confrontation with Lestrange that Voldemort had intervened in, and that Snape had then brought him back to the castle. “I haven’t really had the chance to speak with Snape since that,” he says. “What with… Umbridge, and all.”

“Indeed,” Dumbledore says, looking somewhat troubled. “I hope you will make time to speak with him soon? He and I met briefly shortly after my return to the castle, and he expressed that you comported yourself well during the Ministry’s occupation of the castle.”

_ Huh _ . Not really the impression Harry thought he’d left—but then, maybe Dumbledore is overstating how impressed Snape was. “I’ll do that,” he promises. “Anyway. Umbridge… happened. After the Easter attack, everything got really intense—Slytherin is divided right now, sir. Sort of. Some people supported Umbridge, and were sticking to the line about me being a liar, you know? Malfoy, his cronies, those sorts mostly. And I think some other people wanted to stay out of it, but then she tried to hurt Gemma, and…” Harry shrugs. “Slytherin stands together.”

“One of your most admirable traits,” Dumbledore says, with a nod of his head. “As fiercely protective of those you consider your own as a Hufflepuff, at times. Miss Farley has stepped into something of a leadership role, I take it?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, nodding. “Gemma’s really great—she’s strong, and smart, and she’s really good at inspiring loyalty. I think… she and Sirius talked at Yule. I think she wants to fight, so when she graduates, you should talk to her, sir. She’d be helpful. She’s got connections to a lot of people that you probably don’t think could be allies, but would be if the right person asked.”

Dumbledore inclines his head. “Indeed. I shall take that under consideration, Harry. What else?”

“Well, not much else happened until we all decided enough was enough, and that the Aurors were a step too far, and kicked Umbridge out on her toady arse,” Harry says, and then remembers he’s talking to the Headmaster. “Er, sir. Sorry.”

Dumbledore just smiles and waves a hand. “I have heard much worse in my time, my boy. Carry on.”

“Right. But then this morning, that letter came.” Harry points at the envelope he’d slapped down on Dumbledore’s desk when he first came in—the Headmaster still hasn’t touched it, but reaches out now to retrieve the papers and pull the letter from its envelope. “You’ll see, sir, why I needed to talk to you right away.”

Dumbledore’s eyes skim down over the page, and then come up to meet Harry’s over the top of the parchment. “Indeed,” he says, slowly setting the letter down once more. After a moment, he folds it and creases it again carefully, his long wrinkled fingers tracing the lines of the parchment thoughtfully. “What is your impression, Mr. Potter?”

“It’s a summons,” Harry says. “To a Death Eater meeting. I’ve got to go, haven’t I?”

“Yes.” Dumbledore nods once, slow and solemn. “It seems Lord Voldemort has taken Malfoy Manor as his base of operations for the time being, and I have no way to access him there other than by the diligent work of yourself and Professor Snape. Be cautious, as always, but do go, and report back to me safely.”

“Alright,” Harry says, swallowing, and he accepts the letter from Lord Malfoy back when Dumbledore passes it to him across the table. “Should I… do anything? Listen for anything in particular?”

Dumbledore shakes his head. His hands come to rest folded across his desk, and he looks at Harry solemnly. “The safest thing for you is to play your role as naturally as you can, and so simply do what you can. Do not push, Harry.”

“No, sir,” Harry says, bowing his head. “Thank you.”

“Dismissed, then, Harry. Have your meeting with Professor Snape as soon as possible—and good luck on your exams.” The last is delivered with a kindly smile, the twinkle returning to the Headmaster’s eyes, and Harry smiles back as best he can and ducks out of the room, sliding his Cloak back over himself as he goes. He’s already skipped a class this morning, but it’s Care, so he shouldn’t end up in too much trouble; he only needs to get to his next class on time, and he has a good half-hour left to do that. With that in mind, he heads back to the dorm to exchange his books, and makes his way to the Transfiguration classroom for third period, where he makes studious work of ignoring Blaise’s concerned sideways glances. This, he reminds himself, will need to be the status quo: he can’t tell anyone too much, can’t let them suspect or, worse, think that they  _ know _ anything for sure. Right now, and until Voldemort is dead and the war is over, no one can know anything about him for sure, or he might end up dead himself.

He really needs to talk to Snape.

* * *

In the end, Harry isn’t able to meet with Professor Snape until very close to the end of term—after exams, in fact, in those hazy last few weeks when classes are technically ongoing but everyone is spending much more time lounging in the early-summer heat out on the lawn or wading in the lake than studying. Harry does a decent amount of lounging himself, and with the liberty of Umbridge’s absence takes up running again in the early mornings before it gets too hot—Sirius grins at him through the mirror when he says as much, and reports how nice it is to be getting some fresh air once more—but the looseness of everyone’s schedule and the relaxation of attention that comes in the wake of exams make it possible for Harry to finally slip away without notice.

They arrange the meeting in advance, of course, though as quietly as possible, and Harry arrives at Snape’s office just after lunch on a Saturday under his Cloak, despite that the heat makes walking around under it very stuffy and unpleasant. Still, much better safe than sorry, and Snape seems to agree, casting a swift  _ Muffliato _ on his office door before saying to Harry, “The Headmaster has told me that you have been summoned.”

“Oh,” Harry says, and pulls out the letter from Lord Malfoy to show Snape. “Yeah—here. I responded to say I was coming already. I’ll just need to figure out how to get away from Sirius and Remus.”

“That is handled,” Snape says. “The Order will meet on that date, and they have no intention of bringing you anywhere near those meetings, if what Dumbledore has passed on to me is to be trusted. You simply need to convince them that you will be safe at home alone. The meeting will run long, I suspect, but take this.” Snape draws something out of his pocket—a medallion strung on a gold chain. Harry peers at it closer and realizes that it’s lacquered wood, carved with runes. Elder Furthark, and he almost gets distracted reading the sequence before remembering himself.

“What’s this?” he asks.

“An alert system,” Snape says. “I have one as well. When the Order meeting is drawing to a close, I will activate it, and it will heat. You will only have a few minutes to make it back to your abode, so be sure you are ready to travel swiftly if it activates.”

“Okay,” Harry says. He’s not sure he knows what he needs to get back as quickly as that from Malfoy Manor, but he’ll figure something out. Maybe Sirius would give him a Portkey to the Doghouse for emergencies? Then he realizes the implication of what Snape’s just said. “Wait, will you be at the Order meeting, then?”

“Yes.” Snape turns glinting black eyes on Harry. “I see you realize what that means. You will need to get to Malfoy Manor by yourself, and I will not be present to buffer you from the Dark Lord.”

“No room for error,” Harry murmurs, and remembers Dumbledore’s words:  _ don’t push _ .

“Indeed.” Snape points at the medallion. “Do not lose that. Wear it against your skin at all times.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry says, and immediately slips it on, tucking it under his robes. It clicks against his dad’s lily pendant, settling close against his skin, and he looks up to see a look of faint approval on Snape’s face.

“Good,” Snape says. “Now, with the most immediate business taken care of: are you aware of how much danger you have put yourself in?”

Harry blinks, taken aback at the sudden change in tone; Snape’s voice has turned harsh, forbidding. “How do you mean, sir?”

“Your little  _ stunt _ with the Parseltongue. You might come by the talent honestly, but you must know that revealing it to the Dark Lord will only draw you further into his notice.”

Harry tenses as Snape looms above him, leaning into his space, but refuses to back down, to flinch or lean away. “Maybe that’s where I want to be, sir.”

“The Dark Lord’s  _ attentions _ are often painful for their recipient, you realize,” Snape sneers. “Are you so confident in your endurance? Or in your ability to gain his favour?”

“I know what I’m getting into,” Harry says, hoping that that’s the truth—then again, it’s not like he hasn’t suffered under Voldemort’s hand plenty already. 

“I doubt it,” Snape says, all derision and viciously low estimation of Harry’s intelligence. Typical. “But if you want to die, I suppose I will allow you. Do  _ not _ destroy our cause in your foolish quest for glory, you Gryffindor-bred moron.”

“I’m a Slytherin,” Harry points out, as calmly as he can. He can feel anger roiling in his gut; it feels like sickness. He wonders how red Snape would go if he threw up on him out of spite. “I am a Slytherin right to my core, and you know it, and you  _ hate _ it. All of you like to pretend I’m anything but what I am. Well, you’ll see. I can do this—with or without you,  _ sir _ .” And with that, Harry whirls and storms out of Snape’s office. He hears a sigh just as the door clicks shut, and thinks that Snape doesn’t deserve to be so exasperated, as if he’s somehow superior—he’s a git and Harry doesn’t care what he thinks.

The last few nights of term pass, and Harry ignores Snape’s chilly demeanour, and Blaise and Theo’s concerned and questioning looks, and he avoids his Gryffindor friends, setting himself back to the task of making himself into someone that Voldemort won’t want to kill. He spends at least an hour every night meditating, shoring up Occlumency shields that had become sloppy and disorganized, his attention brought away from his mental landscape by all the happenings in the castle, and he starts categorizing how all the knowledge he’s gained this year can help in the war to come. Politics and ancient runes and the ancient secrets of the House of Slytherin, all these things he can put to use to keep himself and everyone he cares about alive, but not if he trips up now from carelessness. 

Harry runs one last time around Hogwarts’ grounds the morning that they’re set to return to London, breathing in the misty early morning, still cool even in late June before the sun has risen to its full height to burn away the cool calm of the day and set the world alight. He gathers his composure, because outside of the walls of Hogwarts the world is harsher, darker, a scarier and more dangerous place. More than it was last summer… and there’s work to be done out there. He can’t wait to get started.

On the train home, he finds a compartment to himself, sitting down with a book and burying his nose in it, knowing that his friends are more likely to be gossiping about him out of his earshot than planning to come find him, and right now, that suits him just fine. He can get some reading done, get his head together, set it all straight and be ready.

Then, an hour into the journey, the door of his compartment slides open, and he looks up to find Luna Lovegood standing here, smiling as she had been on the train at the start of the year. She’s grown over the course of the year, a little taller and slimmer in her cheeks, a little older. Harry’s sure he’s the same.

“Hello, Harry,” Luna says, in her soft, sweet voice. “Did you have a good year?”

“Not really,” Harry says honestly, setting his book down, and she tilts her head in acknowledgement before coming to sit down.

She perches like a songbird on the seat across from him, light and graceful, and sets her palms on her knees, bare where they peek past the end of her skirt. One of them is a little scraped. “I suppose I didn’t either,” she admits. “Hogwarts isn’t as much fun as daddy promised it would be.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, a little awkward. Luna doesn’t look sad, at least—he really wouldn’t know what to say if she did. “Maybe next year will be better.”

“I hope so,” she says. “What do you hope for, Harry? For the summer?”

Harry sighs. “For time to stop, would be nice. So that we can just… not worry about things for just a  _ little _ longer, you know?”

“I know.” She leans forward and places one of her thin hands on his where he’s still holding his book. “We’re going to be okay, you know. We just need to stick together.”

It’s a lie, it feels false, but Harry nods. “We’ll make it through this,” he says, and  _ that’s _ the truth—Luna might be wrong that they need to band together, because he  _ can’t _ do that, not yet, but… she’s not wrong about the rest. They  _ are _ going to be okay. He’ll make sure of it. “Are you looking forward to seeing your dad?”

“Oh, yes,” Luna says, and accepts the change of subject, launching into her ideas for what she and her father might do together this summer. Harry listens, and feels a little bit of peace steal over him. They’re not out of time, not just yet—there’s still space to go on adventures with fathers and play Quidditch, and if he’s very lucky, it’ll all be okay for just a little longer, just like he hoped.

Their easy conversation carries them all the way back to King’s Cross, and Harry puts away his book and stands up, surprised to find that Luna has stood at the same time. She’s about a head shorter than him, and when she wraps her arms around him in a hug her forehead rests against his collarbone.

“It’s going to be okay,” she says, into the worn fabric of his shirt. “I’ll see you in September, Harry. Or maybe before. Please write.”

Awkward, Harry hugs her back, patting her back a little. “I will,” he promises. “And… yeah. See you later, Luna.”

She pulls away, gives him one of her dreamy smiles, and drifts out the door without another word, leaving him to stare after her, bemused. After a moment, he shakes his head—he can hear the sounds of chatter in the train corridor getting louder, and if he wants to make it through the crowd to Sirius any time in the next hour, he’d better get going.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap! Comments are always welcome, and I'll reply as I have the jam to do.
> 
> I hope this little epilogue isn't disappointing. Umbridge's fate is... mostly still up in the air as of the end of this year and certainly milder than canon. (Though, to be clear: I was never, ever going to replicate "hand her over to a thinly-veiled derogatory First Nations stereotype to be implicitly gang-raped", so. Thanks for thank one, JK.) However, don't doubt that I do have plans for her down the line.
> 
> And, yeah, as I said in the opening note, Year Four will appear... eventually. I'm like 60k in? Roughly. Maybe 1/3 of the way done??? (I KNOW. I KNOW. KILL ME.) But it will come with lots of fun Gemma content, some Cedric content, and of course Neville and Harry. It's even more fragmented in terms of POV than this book, but that gives me lots of space to play! So! I hope it'll be worth the wait. 
> 
> <3

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are welcome as always. And by comments, I mean anything from a long rambly comment consisting of excerpts from the chapter, to just a plain "<3". I love 'em all, no matter how small!
> 
> If you'd like to join me for chats, there is a small (and quite quiet) Discord server for talking UMM and HP more generally [here, which anyone is free to join.](https://discord.gg/GzwfQrU) I can also be found and yelled at on Twitter @flippinnazguls and on Tumblr @motherfuckingnazgul!


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